


Song of the Dauntless Knight

by antietamfalls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antietamfalls/pseuds/antietamfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>14th-century England. Sir John Watson and his knightly comrades return home from fighting for the Black Prince in France and enter into the household service of Duke Moriarty. Among the many castle denizens is Lord Sherlock Holmes, heir to his brother the Earl and long-time hostage of the Duke. An unlikely relationship soon emerges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which They Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I minored in medieval history. This is the only useful application I've found.
> 
>  
> 
> [Chinese translation](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=5019&extra=&page=1) by gbr

Through the slit of his upturned helm, John watched as smoke drifted against a background of dark pine trees and an angry overcast sky. The haze churned in a hypnotizing pattern, coalescing and dividing into indistinct wispy forms. Flat on his back, he could see little else. The sounds of battle were gradually fading, clangs of swords and muffled shouts still carrying distantly across the field. The French were fleeing.

It had happened so quickly - one moment John was turning his courser to mount a new charge with a line of other knights, and the next crashing painfully onto the ground.

His armor was growing stifling, and a great pressure cleaved through his left shoulder. John fumbled uselessly at his visor with his gauntleted right hand, but his armored fingers were too clumsy to unlatch the clasps. He tried to reach over and pull off the glove, but his left arm was completely unresponsive.

Gradually, John could hear someone in heavy sabatons plodding slowly towards him. He blindly grasped around in the mud for his sword, but it was not within reach. Settling for the short dagger at his belt, John clutched it tightly and listened with heightened focus. He was far more valuable as a captive for ransom, but certain bloodthirsty knights were known to expend their battle-hysteria on the indefensible wounded enemy.

The footfalls stopped, and a solid weight hit the ground nearby. There were several metallic rattling noises, and then John felt his helm pulled away and off his head.

John blinked several times in the stark daylight, feeling a rush of cooling air in his sweat-soaked hair. The figure above drew into focus.

Sir William Murray, shed of his most constricting pieces of armor, peered down at him.

"Are you alive, then?"

"It would appear so," John replied, coughing wetly.

"Pity," lamented Sir William. "It seems I owe Sir Gregory three silver pieces."

Freed from his helm, John finally lifted his head to survey the ravaged battlefield. Abandoned spears and halberds rose from the ground, stained heraldic insignias torn and flapping lamely in the breeze. Dozens of dead and wounded men-at-arms littered the muddy field. A bloodied rider-less destrier wandered near the tree line, reigns hanging loosely as it stamped in the muck. John's green surcoat and plate armor was spattered with grime, likely from the violent fall off his horse.

The source of the tight pain in his shoulder was a thick crossbow bolt. It had impaled straight through his chainmail and muscle, pinning him to the black earth underneath. Sir William carefully examined it.

"Bad luck, Sir John. It caught you in the gap between the pauldron and breastplate. An admirable shot by the marksman."

"I'll inform the shooter of your compliments next we meet, Sir William," John answered. "Perhaps he'll amaze me with an equally astounding quarrel through _your_ person."

Sir William laughed, then gripped John's speared shoulder and lifted it sharply upward. John grunted with the movement, but was thankfully released from the earth's clutches and finally able to sit upright. He tentatively tried clenching his mailed left hand into a fist, but succeeded only in sending a shooting pain through the length of his arm.

"I'll fetch the lads and the surgeon to help you to camp," Sir William offered.

"No, I will walk," John argued. He struggled to gain a footing underneath himself. "Let's locate my sword. If you're fortunate, I'll bleed to death during the effort and you can still collect your winnings."

\---

Lord Sherlock Holmes, heir to his brother the Earl, had been only sixteen when forcefully removed from his brother's estate by order of their liege lord.

Sherlock's first several years as hostage at Northrop were marked by intense bouts of rage. The chamberlain had often locked the doors of his rooms and warned away any and all servants lest they be inadvertently be targeted by the angry young man. The episodes often lasted for days on end, gripping him with remarkable depressive moods that could be lifted by nothing and no one.

The attempts at escape commenced soon after, each plan growing more elaborate than the last. Disguises, accomplices, secret stores of supplies, hidden messages - a wide gamut of strategies had been tested in one way or another. The amount of guards and security measures put in place by the Duke increased exponentially. The final time, the knights giving chase caught him only two miles from home.

Sherlock disliked thinking about those days. Acceptance of his captivity arrived slowly and painfully, but eventually it grew over his ire like a numbing scar. Diminished, but ever-present and unquenchable.

Nearly eight years since he came to Northrop, he had settled into a worn and passive pattern of life at the castle. He greatly disliked everyone residing in the Duke's court, and often found menial excuses to avoid gatherings of the pompous lords and ladies. They, in turn, felt ill favor toward Sherlock's brusque manner and often rude comments.

That was why, upon receiving his summons to the chambers of Duke Moriarty, Sherlock neither rebelled nor sulked. The Duke was fair - as fair as one could be to a prisoner all but in name - but often showed little interest in the younger Holmes, except where he could be used to threaten Mycroft away from unwise actions.

As usual, the Duke's only son Lord James was present at the meeting. The Duke took great care in educating his heir in the ways of administering the family's massive holdings, and James, two years Sherlock's junior, could often be seen lurking in his father's shadow at every engagement.

The Duke was seated on a luxurious carved wooden chair and expensively embroidered cloth-of-gold cushion, wine goblet at hand and estate account books piled high on a nearby table. Lord James lingered like a shadow against the stone wall, hearth casting an ominous glow upon his person. Sherlock bowed, per protocol, and let a blank expression settle on his features.

"I've called you here because I have received correspondence from your brother," Duke Moriarty explained from his seat. "There is great and momentous news to be shared."

Sherlock had only seen Mycroft intermittently in the last eight years, when allowed by the Duke or when Mycroft had business to attend to at Northrop. Their meetings were often short, tense, and monitored by a steward. Sherlock had attended his brother's wedding last spring with a full complement of the Duke's most trusted knights as escorts.

"Your brother writes that his wife is with child," said the Duke, peering into his goblet. "The child is expected to arrive in the spring."

"If the child is male, will I be granted leave from Northrop?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

A frown played at the corners of the Duke's mouth. "Are you so eager to leave, Sherlock? Have you not been contented here in my household?"

"Your lordship is most hospitable, but, as always, I would prefer to return to my ancestral home."

"I suppose if the Earl begot a son, your presence would prove less beneficial. Your reduced position in the line of succession would leave you far less valuable." The Duke waved a hand and a servant emerged from the corner of the room to pour more wine. "But, your brother has repeatedly expressed his wish for you to be returned, and I cannot ignore the sentiment he attaches to you. James, my son, what is your opinion on the matter?"

James's face displayed a serpentine mischief, dark eyes shining in the firelight. "I know of many who would grieve the loss of our dear friend, including myself. On the court's behalf, I must selfishly request that he remain until my lord finds no possible use of him."

Sherlock allowed a hint of a glare to pass to Lord James. His rivalry with James was common knowledge at Northrop, but the Duke often seemed oblivious to the extent of the ill will held in their relationship. Sherlock dearly hoped that Mycroft's child was male so that he never be forced to become Earl and pay homage to Duke James.

"An honest opinion, my son," the Duke replied somberly. "Your concern moves me. The season grows late, and my father always instructed that the time before winter is a poor occasion to make rash decisions. I will judge your release again in the spring, when we know the sex of the child."

"If I might be allowed to return home for the winter, Duke," Sherlock requested with subdued bitterness. "I would be most grateful."

"With deepest regrets, the Earl must make do without you for another turn of the seasons. All will be decided in the spring, Lord Holmes."

\---

Northrop Castle, seat of Duke Moriarty, was situated on a low rocky hill overlooking the walled town of Northrop. Abundant green farmland and large expanses of the Duke's private wood surrounded the picturesque stronghold. Several small streams flowed along the fields, converging in the nearby Northrop river, a tributary that eventually emptied into the Thames.  

Sir Gregory Lestrade and his companions arrived at Northrop in the waning autumn days of 1374. It was one of the largest castles Gregory had ever seen; far larger than his father's holdings in Normandy. The town was lively and rustic, and many of the young peasant women waved excitedly and blushed demurely as the knights rode past.

Upon arriving at the gatehouse that separated the castle from the town, Gregory named himself and his companions as knights seeking employment within the Duke's garrison. The gatekeeper sent a page to fetch the marshal, and they were allowed to pass through into the castle bailey.

The contents of the castle's high walls were even more impressive from the inside. Enormous stonework structures rose on the western side, buttressing the fortified walls. Even from this vantage point, Gregory estimated the great hall to be at least twice the size of his father's. The keep, taller than the rest, flew Moriarty's standard, golden serpent snapping in the afternoon wind. Numerous stout towers dotted strategic points along the walls, all heavily manned and dutifully kept. Several smaller wattle-and-daub buildings encompassed the main yard.

The marshal, Master Donovan, met them outside the stables. Gregory and Sir John spoke to the marshal while the others attended the horses.

"Thank you for receiving us, marshal," Gregory said after making introductions. "We have been travelling a long and weary distance to return home to England. Our company has been engaged in campaigns against the French these past three years."

"You do us honor by calling, friend," the marshal replied. "My page tells me you seek to join the Duke's noble household. How many are you?"

"Five knights and one squire," Sir John told him. "We who stand before you, as well as Sir William Murray, Sir Tobias Gregson, Sir Sebastian Moran, and Sir Gregory's squire, who is called Anderson the Younger."

Marshal Donovan considered this a while, hand stroking his voluminous beard. "Lean times have befallen his Lordship's lands these past twenty-five years. The effects of the Black Death still haunts our Duke, and only recently has the population risen enough to work all the land he possesses. Although I cannot doubt your knightly valor, we are careful in the speed at which we take on new soldiers."

"We have met similar responses in our months since returning to England," Gregory answered. "It is difficult for freelance knights to find stable employment. It is unfortunate we were forced to depart the Black Prince's company in France. We have come to beg succor of your lord, for my compatriot John's sister resides within the Duke's court as a companion of the Duchess."

"Is this true, sir?" Marshal Donovan asked, surprised.

"Yes, my sister is the Lady Harriet. Duke Moriarty is liege lord to our father, and my sister earned the Duchess' favor several years ago upon her arrival at court."

"By God, I cannot refuse such familial service. The Duke holds loyalty among lineages in high regard, and will be pleased to learn of this. You may make yourselves welcome here. Castle Northrop is blessed in its graces and exuberant in its pleasures. None shall convince me that the finest diversions cannot be found, especially for vigorous young men such as yourselves. You shall be honored friends at my lord's table this evening."

Gregory and Sir John bowed in thanks. "We look forward to all that Northrop has to offer," Gregory replied.

\---

Sherlock despised knights. They were crude and callous, and very often exhibited the feeblest of all possible intelligence. As dull-witted shields against enemy forces they were passable, but that was the limit of their redeeming qualities. So, when the five new knights approached their lord's high table in the great hall that evening, Sherlock cared little for the proceedings. Lady Molly, seated beside him, excitedly raised herself up to achieve a superior view.

"They're all so handsome!" she whispered to Sherlock. He twirled his knife in his hands, trying to ignore her prattling comments. Lady Molly had long shown fascination with every new man-at-arms that entered the Duke's service.

The great hall was crowded end-to-end with long heavy tables. Men-at-arms and others in service of the Duke filled every seat, as was common when the court was in residence at Northrop. High above in the vaulted wooden ceiling, great heraldic banners hung among hazy hearth smoke. The Duke enjoyed collecting trophies from his noble vassals bent under his will through battle. The Holmes's dark blue gyrfalcon was draped somewhere in the rafters. Sherlock had long ceased compulsively seeking it upon entering the hall.

The five knights in front of the high table wore their colorful surcoats over leather tunics. They knelt together before the Duke.

"Lady Clara has already discovered their names! She informed me this afternoon," Lady Molly said giddily. "Their leader, the one with the red fox, is Sir Gregory Lestrade. The rumors say his father owns large holdings in Normandy, and that one day Sir Gregory will become a great lord and quite wealthy."

Although only in his late twenties, Sir Gregory's hair was already brushed with silver. No doubt the women would find him all the more distinguished. Molly certainly reflected that sentiment. His clean and well-kept manner suggested a highly privileged upbringing. Like all nobility from the continent, Sir Gregory probably possessed an overdeveloped sense of ego. Sherlock looked forward to deflating it.

"Let's see if I can remember the rest. The tallest one is Sir Sebastian Moran, with the crossed black arrows."

Sir Sebastian wore a permanent grimace, and Sherlock perceived a subtle suggestion of restrained violence in every movement. He made a mental note to steer clear of that one; Sir Sebastian would undoubtedly find no qualms in inflicting bodily harm for any perceived insults, regardless whether it was delivered by noble or commoner.

"Then there's Sir Tobias Gregson wearing the grey hunting horn on yellow, and Sir William Murray with the white hart on brown."

Sir Tobias and Sir William appeared very much in the image of classic knighthood Sherlock had grown accustomed to seeing around the castle.  They both wore arrogant grins and decadently eyed the high ladies seated along the Duke's table.

"And of course, Sir John Watson with the pale hound on green. He's Lady Harriet's brother."

Sherlock detected the family resemblance - the same blonde hair and open expression. Sir John looked every bit as knightly as his comrades, but something in the way he held himself suggested a reserved yet vigilant nature. It was an uncommon trait in a household knight, but Sherlock assumed Sir John would soon fall to the uncontrolled debauchery rampant among the Duke's garrison.

Sir John carefully studied the nobles seated along the table from his kneeling position. His eyes swept over Sherlock, and Sir John fractionally reacted to meeting a returned stare. The other nobles would hardly dare make eye contact with new knights, but Sherlock had never cared much for their aristocratic inclinations.

As one the knights swore their oaths of fealty, that they would faithfully obey the Duke until he turned them from his service. Duke Moriarty stood and announced his acceptance of their oaths. After a conspicuous show of bowing and scraping, the knights took their seats at one of the banquet tables with the rest of the household garrison. Excepting, of course, Sir Gregory - as leader of the company, he had been granted a guest seat at the Duke's high table.

Sir Gregory ascended the raised platform and took his place two seats to the left of Sherlock, between Lord James and Lady Molly. Lord James welcomed him politely but coldly. Molly blushed.

"Thank you for graciously welcoming us to your hearth and home," Sir Gregory told Lord James, who lent a brittle smile. "I have not seen a finer hall in all of England or France."

He greeted Lady Molly with a chivalrous bow and kiss of her hand. "I am Sir Gregory, my lady. May I also say, the ladies of the court have dazzled my entire party, but your radiance stands above the rest."

"I would not deliver such words in the Duchess' hearing, my lord," Lady Molly replied, cheeks growing pinker.

Sir Gregory tilted his head in greeting to Sherlock as well, but received no returned salutation. Sherlock was hardly interested in the mindless courtesies of nobility. Instead, as Sir Gregory took his seat, he decided to challenge the knight.

"I find it curious, sir, that you swear an oath to serve a vassal of King Edward and that you fought for the prince in Aquitaine, when your own father's liege lord is the King of France." Sherlock flipped his knife and pinned the blade to the polished wooden table.

Sir Gregory controlled his features remarkably well, betraying his distaste with only a twitch of his hand. "It is true that my father serves France. Our family has a long history in both England and Normandy. My mother's extended kith and kin reside near London. I doubt my father would respond favorably in knowing my actions, but until I inherit his title I intend to do as I please."

"And you find it simple to switch loyalties in such a manner?" Sherlock prodded, leveling a critical glance at the knight.

"I'm certain Sir Gregory receives no pleasure from that prospect," Lady Molly scoffed defensively.

"No, my lady, I do not," Sir Gregory answered slowly, eyes narrowing at Sherlock's impertinence. "If you must inquire, my lord, I find loyalty a virtue best served in the company of my brother-in-arms. We travel, fight, and practice together. I do not doubt their bravery, and would gladly give my life for each and every one of them. Whom we represent on the field makes no difference in my consideration."

Molly's countenance betrayed pure adoration for the knight.

"Be careful, Sir Gregory, that you do not find yourself caught between opposite duties. I would much delight in seeing your response to such a circumstance," observed Sherlock.

Sir Gregory frowned, and for the rest of the evening steadfastly avoided talking to Sherlock.

\---

The next evening, Sir Gregory and his company were invited to attend an audience with the Duke so that he might acquaint himself with his new knights. The Duke wholly prized personally knowing each man in his household, believing it inspired greater loyalty and bolder service.

"Were there not five?" the Duke asked as Sir Gregory led his comrades into the grand chamber.

"Our fifth, Sir John, is reuniting with his sister, the Lady Harriet, after his long absence," explained Sir William. "He sends his regrets that he was not able to meet your lordship this evening."

The Duke, as it turned out, possessed an insatiable love for war stories. Gregory and the other knights indulged him for some time, telling of their exploits under the command of the Black Prince. Duke Moriarty laughed uproariously when Sir Gregory described capturing several prominent French nobles by surprising them at the latrines in the middle of the night, and shook his head sorrowfully when Sir Tobias told of the great fields of carnage where many noble young knights had died.

Talk came around to discussion of the Duke's massive court and prominent retinue of knights in residence. Many banal compliments were passed, and Gregory began to grow weary and long for his bunk in the garrison.

"I had a chance encounter with your hostage Lord Holmes," commented Sir Tobias suddenly. "He strikes a remarkable contrast within your household."

"Indeed, Sir Tobias," the Duke agreed. "I fear he is a hostile guest at present. You would do well to avoid him, as many in my court have learned from harsh experience."

"My encounter proved warning enough, my lord," Sir Tobias replied. "He took one look at my person and accused me of breaking into the larder early this morning! What inspired him to invent such lies, I do not know."

Gregory found it exceptionally believable that Sir Tobias had engaged in such an endeavor, but hardly with the sole aim of accessing their lord's expensive meats. He wondered which unfortunate kitchen maid had been seduced by the knight.

"Lord Sherlock possesses no honor of which to speak," the Duke observed. "In his first year here he attempted to flee on no less than seven separate occasions, and was recaptured only due to my knights' superior horsemanship. He cares for nothing and no one, save his studies. I have often contemplated whether offering to return him home would serve as a greater deterrent to his brother than retaining him as a guest! Alas, the Earl has shown a significant desire to receive him home."

"An incorrigible problem, to be sure," commented Sir William.

"Incorrigible, yes, but by God not the only one which vexes me," the Duke replied. "The younger Holmes insists on being allowed regular excursions into the surrounding countryside. His time away from Northrop is most cherished by its residents, but I dare not permit him leave the premises without escort."

"A suitable risk to benefit all, my lord," noted Gregory.

"That would be true if Lord Sherlock had not earned the malice of nearly every knight in my household. He spits insults at every turn and their ire brings them close to blows. Many an armed man in my service would enjoy seeing him fettered in irons for a month." The Duke took a draught from his wine goblet. His eyes widened dramatically as if a grand revelation had suddenly struck him. "Pray tell, would this not be a suitable test for my newest loyal knights? Is there one among you who would brave such a task?"

Gregory glanced at his companions. He remembered vividly his own disagreeable encounter with the lord, and would not wish a similar experience on any of those under his command. The knights' faces grew strained, turning to look at their leader. Each was silently pleading with their eyes that Gregory not offer their services for so vile an errand. Sir John was the only of his retinue not present, and so Gregory regretfully realized that the misfortune must fall on him.

"I believe, your lordship, you will find our comrade Sir John the most agreeable and chivalrous of knights," Gregory answered with exaggerated conviction. "Did you know he was knighted by the Black Prince himself? This very evening over supper he regaled us with how earnestly he wishes to serve your lordship, and I know he would never balk at such a challenge."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Duke. "More wine!"

\---

John led his bay courser from the stable, pulling snug his leather riding gloves as he walked. Stopping in the yard, he checked the cinches on his saddle. His sword and dagger hung as familiar presences from his belt.

Sir Gregory and the others had located him outside the chapel the evening prior, just after visiting with his sister. The knights had laughed uncontrollably for a solid ten minutes upon spotting him, then attempted to console him with vague platitudes. John eventually had grown tired of their mysterious taunting, and departed for the garrison house.

It was only this morning over breakfast that Sir Gregory informed him of the Duke's request. John had stared at Sir Gregory in disbelief, receiving only a mournful expression in return. There was hardly a knight at Northrop who lacked a grudge against the errant Lord Holmes. Certain stories regarding his offences were almost too extravagant to believe.

John, however, regarded his knightly covenants with grave solemnity. And so here he waited at mid-day for what all declared would be the most appalling experience of his time at Northrop.

Shortly, a man on  a grey palfrey appeared around the corner of the stable building. He possessed the pale skin of a high-born lord and was dressed in a well-tailored dark doublet and riding cloak.

"Sir John Watson?" the man asked in a weary tone, drawing his horse closer.

"Lord Holmes, I presume?" John replied, grasping his horse's reins in one hand to steady the animal.

"Lord Holmes is my brother," he said dismissively. Lord Sherlock began riding a slow circle around both John and his courser, critically examining both. "You're one of the new knights."

"Yes, my comrades-in-arms and I arrived not three days ago." John eyed him evenly from his lower position, resolving to ignore Lord Sherlock's intimidation attempts. He flexed his free hand.

"Already claiming the prime assignments, are we?" A dark edge tinged Sherlock's voice, belaying his humored expression. The circling continued.

"My commander elected to volunteer my services," John replied guardedly.

"A reward, then?"

"I suppose that remains to be seen, my lord."

Sherlock's face grew contemptuous. "Have you fought in any _real_ wars, sir?"

John clenched his teeth, trying to maintain a neutral expression. "As real as any, my lord. I had the honor of previously serving in France, fighting in the name of the king."

"That, in my appraisal, is a false war. Petty high lords squabbling over who has the superior claim to the throne of France. It lacks both point and purpose, ultimately."

"I've witnessed many a brave man killed in front of me, my lord. It proved real enough in their demise," John answered forcefully, steeling his eyes.

"Perhaps. Many a knight in residence here only plays at war, fighting useless skirmishes over land and property."

"So complains the man born to a wealthy family founded on such activities."

Sherlock stopped his palfrey directly in front of John, tilting his head slightly. After a moment's contemplation, he leaned forward and smirked.

"Come along, then, Sir John. The day waits for no one." He flicked his reins and started toward the main gate at a full trot.

 John quickly mounted his bay and followed. His pursuit lasted through the main roads of Northrop.

Once outside the city walls, Lord Sherlock briefly glanced back at John several yards behind. He turned back, and suddenly broke into a gallop.

John grabbed his reins and spurred his horse to match the speed. Sherlock led him on a merry chase, weaving past carts and travelling peasants on the road. He veered off into a wide field, making toward the Duke's private wood. John's courser was far faster and more powerful than the palfrey, however, and they hadn't yet reached the tree line when the horses pulled even. He bent low in his saddle and urged the well-trained animal faster, rounding off Sherlock's route of escape and blocking his path.

Sherlock reined short, all elegance and style.

"You shouldn't handle a palfrey so," John told him, taking a few deep breaths. "A charger might prove more your speed."

"Indeed it would, but Duke Moriarty dislikes that I should have such an animal. I was forced to train this horse to my standards."

As if to prove the palfrey remained serviceable, Sherlock urged it into a steady amble as he entered the wood. The main path was well-worn and wide, so John trotted his courser to Sherlock's side.

The forest was shaded and rather chilly, but the scenery was pleasant enough. The wood was rarely used except for hunting by the lords at court, and so the path was quite deserted.  

"What affliction befell your shoulder?" Sherlock asked abruptly, eyes on the trail ahead.

"Why do you suggest it's injured?" replied John, his aggravation waning.

"Your left shoulder is stiff and there exists a nearly imperceptible favoring of your right arm in two-handed tasks."

"And you can perceive it, can you?"

"You know the truth of it, Sir John. Am I correct?"

"Yes. It's how my company and I came to be here," answered John. "I was shot by a crossbowman in France and emerged unfit to fight. I can no longer block effectively with a shield, and my range of motion with a two-handed weapon is diminished." He glanced bitterly into the trees. "I suppose it was inevitable that I eventually suffer injury, at my age."

"Pray tell, how old is that?"

"Twenty-eight. Sir Gregory is a year my senior and quite fit, but even he cannot compete with the younger knights."

"But your comrades are uninjured," Lord Sherlock said bluntly, clearly confused. "Why did they not remain in France?"

"My friends did not wish to part ways, so they accompanied me in returning to England."

Lord Sherlock appeared to not understand, furrowing his brow faintly as he looked at John.

"Loyalty amongst my knightly brethren is a highly regarded virtue," he clarified. "They requested and were granted permission to escort me home."

"Ah," Lord Sherlock replied distantly.

Another question did not seem forthcoming, so John continued. "These last several years, I have traded correspondence with my old friend Master Michael of Stamford, the Duke Moriarty's court physician. He suggested the Duke might employ us."

"You've known him long?"

"Since my childhood. He  supplied tutelage for a time at my father's home. Originally I sought to become a physician, like him. That changed upon first training with a sword."

They travelled along the trail in silence for some distance. The woods were littered with browned piles of rotting leaves, and John could hear the rushing of a river concealed beyond the trees. The ancient pines overhead rustled ominously in the wind and contrasted darkly against the pale grey sky.

"How long have you resided at Northrop?" John asked cautiously, after his curiosity grew unmanageable.

Sherlock's expression darkened. "Surely your friends in the garrison have explained all about myself."

"I've heard tales."

"Any of them flattering?"

"None so far," John said with a diplomatic glance.

"I would hardly declare their accounts definitive."

"And yet you do nothing to contradict their veracity, my lord," John observed.

Sherlock set his jaw resolutely, a somber cast overtaking his features.

They reached a split in the trail, and Sherlock confidently guided his horse down the right-hand path. After a few yards he forced his palfrey off the path into the underbrush. John stopped his courser at the edge of the trail.

"What route is this?"

"Come and discover for yourself," Sherlock answered from afar.

Sighing, John urged his bay after the lord. His horse picked the path far more slowly than the palfrey, who evidently had travelled this way before. Either that, or Sherlock had memorized an invisible trail of markers. The ground sloped gradually downward and became more slippery with rot and mud. If Sherlock caused John's horse to break a leg, he would be profoundly displeased.

Eventually, the courser successfully navigated the terrain and emerged from behind a bushy copse. Sherlock was standing beside his horse on a flattened grassy clearing. Nearby, the river John had detected earlier was flowing rapidly amidst a rocky channel, fed by a ten-foot waterfall that launched a misty spray into the air. Large flat stones lined the riverbed, overgrown with mossy protrusions.

John dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree.

"It's beautiful," he said, admiring in the sight.

"Yes, and quite secluded," Sherlock agreed. "I discovered it years ago after I escaped from Northrop. They spent five days attempting to locate me."

"Do you often run away?" John asked cautiously.

"Formerly, yes. I've learned that fleeing the castle directly raises the alarm with excessive acceleration. It is far easier to outwit a single guard."

John stared at him. He reflexively placed a hand on his sword pommel. "Speak your intentions, then."

Sherlock evaluated John evenly. "It is simple enough. I am a hostage of the Duke. You, of course, are present to prevent my escape."

"Do you intend to attempt escape, my lord?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up and down John's person. "I've determined twenty-seven methods of exploiting your injured shoulder and incapacitating you. Only four exhibit any likelihood of succeeding."

John raised an eyebrow. He released his hand from his sword. "You must visit the practice yard, then. I'm sure you could disprove your flimsiest theories and discover anew twice as many."

"Take care, sir, or you may provide the very fuel for my escape upon our next excursion."

The words took John by surprise. "Have I passed your test, then? Many of the knights insist a second invitation is rare indeed."

Sherlock acquired a bored expression. "I have encountered many a foul riding partner, but you are marginally less offensive than the rest."

"A high compliment, to be sure."

"I wish to retain my riding privileges, and the Duke has made it clear that I must endure an escort." Sherlock glanced at the rushing river, then back. "I would keep you engaged in that regard, unless you find me as objectionable as my previous guards."

"And miss my quota of piercing observational insights and barbed wit? I think not."

"You mock me, sir," Sherlock replied caustically.

"I believe you mocked me first, my lord," John rejoined with an affable smile.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, then broke into a laugh. He was soon joined by John.


	2. In Which They Fall

Sir Gregory had been raised with the grand romantic traditions of the noble courts of Aquitaine. His father's household hosted many famous traveling troubadours during his years in residence there. Their lyrical ballads inspired a great admiration for romance in the young Gregory, and he still immensely enjoyed hearing the famous works about the ideals of courtly love. His fellow knights, although often showing preference for epics of warfare and glorious victory in battle, had also adopted a taste for the virtuous romantic exploits from the tales.

Gregory developed a deep and devoted love for the Lady Molly from first setting eyes on her. He occupied many waking hours watching for her on the balconies of the keep, mentally composing poetry and flowery compliments that might please her and prove the strength of his ardor. There was little opportunity to see the cloistered ladies of the court, however, and he had been forced to settle for brief longing glances from his seat in the great hall during the evenings.

Today the knights were relaxing against the wooden posts outside the stonework kitchen, listening to the minstrel tunes floating over the high wall that separated an enclosed private garden from the yard. Presumably, several ladies of the court were relaxing on the other side.

"I would ride across the burning sands of the Turkish kingdoms, unarmed and without a drop of water if only the Lady Clara would honor me with a glance from her exquisite green eyes," Sir Tobias declared earnestly, leaping away from one of the posts to pace animatedly. A veneer of passion lit his features. 

"My Lady Molly has already granted me such distinction with barely any effort," Gregory answered immodestly. "I can only imagine how she might reward me for a similar feat."

"Lady Molly is pleasant, I suppose, but she lacks the spirit of Lady Clara. Her gait is as queenly as any courtier, her admonitions both passionate and wise..."

"You can waste away your days pining after those preposterous excuses for noblewomen, sirs, but your efforts will pale in comparison to whose eye I have captured," boasted Sir William, smugly folding his arms.

"And who is that, Sir William?" asked Gregory.

"The very Duchess herself! Did you not spy her observing me these past two nights at supper? Her adoration is apparent even to the dimmest of men."

The other knights burst into a coarse round of laughter.

"Pray tell, what evidence has brought this conclusion?" Sir John asked, holding his side in pained hilarity.

William engaged a hushed tone, as if passing a secret. "As she surveyed the tables, I detected the barest hesitation as her eyes passed over me. Clearly, she is forced to hide her affections, lest the Duke discover her and kill us both. I must be careful in my advances, it would seem."

"Yes, I would act most delicately in this matter," Gregory answered, attempting to contain his ridicule. "And I challenge you thusly, Sir William: if the Duchess herself acknowledges her devotion for you, through word either spoken or written, by the time of the summer solstice, I will gladly grant you my horse."

"The destrier gifted by your father? A fine specimen, Sir Gregory. I accept," William said, preening at the prospect.

"When you possess both the animal and the Duchess, you can tell us which specimen is superior in your view," commented Sir Sebastian.

William suddenly detected the derision in their smiles, face growing sullen. "You will see, gentlemen. You will not be laughing so heartily at mid-year."

"You would be better served to avoid such trysts," said Sebastian absently. "They are nothing but a waste of time. Distractions from the majestic art of warfare."

"I would agree with you in the busier seasons, but there is little else to do in winter months," replied Tobias.

Sebastian shrugged.

"Sir John? What of your romantic pursuits?" asked Gregory. "Is there not a lady here at court who has caught your eye? The Lady Mary of Morstan is quite beautiful, and unclaimed by one of our affected hearts."

John raised an eyebrow. "That she is, Sir Gregory. Perhaps one shall catch my eye, but as of yet I am too well-informed on the ladies' habits by my sister Harriet. The women spend as much time gossiping about us as we do them, I can assure you."

"The Lady Clara? Has she spoken of me?" questioned Tobias excitedly.

"That is not a topic I readily discuss with my sister, but I can ask next I see her, if it please you."

"That it does, sir. I would be most grateful," Tobias assured. "Perhaps you can deliver a token of my devotion?"

John frowned. "I am a knight, sir, not a page. Deliver it yourself."

Tobias scowled, then slowly drifted away in thought. "What shall I give her?" he inquired to himself.

"Women. They turn a soldier's mind to frivolities," grieved Sebastian.

"There are far more distasteful ways to spend your time," noted William. "Speaking of such, have you enjoyed our prank, John? Tobias was convinced you would return from your expedition with Lord Sherlock having killed him outright!"

John shrugged indifferently. "We both survived each other, as did the horses. It proved a wholly uneventful experience."

"Who shall we trick into the next outing?" asked William mischievously. "Sir Sebastian, I have half a mind to suggest your services. That would truly be a jest!"

"Hardly," replied Sebastian with a dour grimace.

"There is no need for such taunting," John interrupted. "Lord Sherlock has found me acceptable and I will continue as his escort."

Gregory glanced at John. "My apologies, sir. If I had known you would be trapped permanently in this engagement, I would not have offered you to the Duke."

A mild expression passed over John's face. Clearly, he was not offended by the circumstance.

William had already advanced to a more interesting subject. "Did you hear? The Duke has confirmed he will hold a great tournament this spring, as he does every year to excite his court."

"That is excellent news," replied Sebastian. "I will relish a tournament to remove the winter rust."

\---

Sherlock found his outings with John a peaceful respite from the chaotic castle life at Northrop, and he sensed John felt the same way.

They scoured every inch of trail established in the Duke's expansive wood, and even forged new ones of their own into wild and reclusive sections of the forest. The trees in the deeper reaches were primordial and ancient, dripping with grey lichen and spreading massive interlocking roots.

After a week, Sherlock started bringing his precious paper folio and pen set so he might sketch and catalogue the various plants in different parts of the woods. He and John would ride until a suitable location was found, and Sherlock would dash off into the trees and settle amongst the foliage. John usually walked slow perimeters of the area, always keeping Sherlock in view and a hand at his sword. The knight appeared to enjoy inspecting the woods as much as Sherlock, and would sometimes bring him curious samples for his collection of dried and pressed flora.

They talked intermittently at first, testing the limits of each others' personalities and dispositions. John proved remarkably subdued when not faced with any sort of immediate threat, and Sherlock enjoyed his resolute stubbornness. It proved both useful and interesting on the occasions that he lost his temper and berated John for one reason or another. Some rants earned him a sarcastic comment, while others caused John to grow silently angry and refuse to speak for twenty minutes or more. In a fascinating deviation from Sherlock's previous experience, John never threatened to cease his escort duties during such arguments. Sherlock attempted to correlate the attributes that caused the different reactions, but he suspected it had to do with social propriety. He had never been very good at making such subtle distinctions.

Most of the time, however, the conversation proved pleasant and amicable. John enjoyed learning about the plant species Sherlock was working with, and proved quite able to retain the information and draw his own conclusions. He also found Sherlock's hobby of deduction infinitely entertaining. He laughed in astonishment when Sherlock informed him which of the Duke's men-at-arms were conducting illicit romantic affairs, stared in amazement when he explained which servants were stealing items from various rooms in the castle, and could scarcely believe when Sherlock suggested that several of the high lords at court were actually spying on the Duke by order of the king.

Having a rapt audience for the first time in eight years was intoxicating. Sherlock laughed often and easily during their trips, and his existence at the castle almost dissolved into a separate life. There was the annoying, tedious, irritating life spent confined in stone walls with nothing to do but read and avoid others, and there was the glorious, relaxing, surprising life without protocol or boundaries in the Duke's wood with John.

The days were growing colder and rainier, however, and Sherlock knew winter would soon arrive. A persistent pain developed in his chest during the last week of November, and mysteriously never seemed to fade.

One day, John absently noted that traces of frost persisted in the trees even at midday, and that they should probably stop riding for the season.

As Sherlock took a seat on a large rock, waist-deep in dark green ferns, he couldn't help but glance at John. The knight finished tying their horses to a sturdy branch and initiated his heavily-booted trek around the area. John stopped abruptly, however, and bent slightly to peer at something on the ground.

"Wolf tracks," John called, breath frosting in the air. "That decides the matter. Today is definitely the last day. I don't particularly wish to fight a wolf."

Sherlock didn't answer. John slowly followed the tracks through the underbrush, pausing every few feet.

It was a reasonable conclusion for John to make, but his words cut through Sherlock like an icy sword. Not the wolf part - it was completely absurd to think a wolf would attack them unprovoked. No, it was the confirmation that their days in the forest would soon be at an end.

Sherlock could bear proximity to very few people at Northrop, and he actively liked even fewer. John was first on both lists by an astronomical distance. Could it be friendship Sherlock was experiencing, that foreign pain in his chest? It was a difficult concept to define; Euclid and Socrates were infinitely simpler.

John knelt to inspect the tracks, removing clumps of damp leaves to achieve an uninhibited view. Sherlock felt an overwhelming need to give something to John, a demonstration of his appreciation for their time spent together. It was critically important that John understand how much his friendship meant.

"I've resided here since age sixteen. Eight years," Sherlock said suddenly from where he sat in the underbrush. His folio lay unopened on the rock beside him.

The knight's head snapped up in surprise. "What?"

"Your question, from that first day. You asked how long I'd resided at Northrop."

John rose slowly, wolf tracks forgotten. He carefully leaned against the wide, scarred trunk of a nearby tree. They rarely talked about personal history, and Sherlock saw that John understood the importance of this conversation.

"My brother, Mycroft, is seven years my elder. He became Earl of Greyhurst at age 20 after our father passed unexpectedly." Sherlock moved his eyes to the gnarled fern in front of him. "Mycroft is extraordinarily talented in political strategy and was soon called to London to serve as an administrator for the king. Duke Moriarty proved quite displeased by the prospect of Mycroft gaining the king's favor in such a way. He saw intrigues and scheming to overthrow his house in every move my brother made. Admittedly, Mycroft was probably plotting against the Duke, but not as overtly as Moriarty thinks. My brother is far more subtle and I believe, given time, he would have destroyed the Duke through legal loopholes and tax regulations. Nevertheless, the threat was present, and Duke Moriarty struck where my brother was weakest."

"Requiring your presence as a hostage," John's voice answered.

"Yes. It was a rainy evening. I remember it distinctly. My brother conducted the details of the arrangement days before, I think. He wisely declined to tell me until the knights entered Greyhurst Hall." Sherlock bowed his head at the memories. "Mycroft resigned his position in the king's government, as was required to maintain my safety. He still possesses powerful friends, of whom the Duke is aware. My imprisonment was supposed to last only two years. Unfortunately, the tactic worked far too well in quelling my brother, and the Duke has yet to see a reason to release me." He raised his head.

John had at some point crossed half the distance between them. He stood not twenty feet away, knee-high in ferns, expression readable a ever. "Thank you for telling me."

"Very few know the whole story."

"Clearly. You should hear the insane theories the knights purport as truth. One would have you the secret illegitimate son of the king placed here for protection, while another declares you a spy for a German prince determined to invade the isle." John smiled reassuringly at him. 

The pain in Sherlock's chest relaxed, but rather than fading completely it seemed to fill him entirely. Really, if this was his reaction to having a singular friend, he hardly regretted not possessing more.

John persisted in his gaze until Sherlock lifted his folio and opened it to continue his work. The knight returned to his rounds, but Sherlock caught glimpses of that smile for the rest of the outing.

\---

By mid-December snow regularly fell from the darkened winter skies. Sherlock spent a majority of his time secluded in his apartments reading by the fire or strolling the warmer residential buildings and watching the castle staff carry out their duties.

Sherlock often ventured along the battlements of the inner wall, which afforded an excellent view of most of the yard. His favored location was the flat expanse on top of the barbican that separated the outer bailey from the inner bailey.

The knights in the garrison attempted to practice in the yard when the weather was not bitterly cold, but rarely remained outside for long. They preferred to spend their time lounging in the garrison or occasionally in the great hall, sharing provocative gossip about their courtly intrigues and bemoaning their futile attempts to gain the affections of the noble ladies of the castle.

Lord James could often be spotted interacting with the men-at-arms. It was not long before Sherlock noticed Sir Sebastian doggedly taking to James' side, laughing harshly and passing threatening glances at anyone who dared bother them. Molly alleged that Sir Sebastian was to be assigned as bodyguard for the Duke's heir. The loathsome sight of the two men together thereafter instantly spurred Sherlock to turn and walk back from whence he came.

Lady Molly provided reasonable distraction and information on occasion, but once ignited on the topic of Sir Gregory she could hardly be convinced to stop blathering. She repeatedly invited Sherlock to visit the ladies in their quarters, but he flatly dismissed every petition.   

It required only one week of agonized boredom for Sherlock to admit to himself that he missed John's company and had been subtly searching for him around the castle. Unfortunately, the knight was nowhere to be found during Sherlock's inspections of the yard or great hall. Sherlock watched him from afar at supper, but John rarely glanced up at the high table. He was far too distracted by the antics of his fellow knights.

Perhaps their rides had been simply that; rides, which John had been obligated to endure. Most likely John was relieved that winter had come, allowing him to spend his afternoons with preferred company. The thought brought on a simmering depression which lasted for nearly three days. Sherlock spent them primarily in his rooms, leaving only for required engagements and meals.

Finally, persistent calls from Lady Molly broke the stupor. She berated him on the negligent health effects of staying indoors for so long, and Sherlock reluctantly agreed to take a walk.

Out on the barbican, it was snowing steadily. The yard was practically deserted, only a few unfortunate stable boys emptying buckets of filth from the horse stalls. A few heavily cloaked knights milled to and fro, but none were recognizable under their abundant garb. Pressed against the crenellated stone, Sherlock mentally castigated himself for reacting so disgracefully. All the other knights hated him. Was this truly so surprising?

The snow muted the sounds of the world, and Sherlock did not hear the footsteps approaching.

"You've stopped up here nearly every day of late," a familiar voice said from behind.

Sherlock turned. John, wrapped in a thick brown cloak, watched him intently from further down the battlement. A light snow flurry surrounded them both.

A warm sensation flooded his chest. "It's the optimal view of Northrop."

John stepped to the edge, gazing out over the thatch-roofed buildings surrounding the yard. Thin curls of smoke drifted from the stonework chimneys.

"I've looked for you," John said, slightly turning his head to glance back at him. "You spend far too much time in the keep or up here on the wall. The knights aren't allowed constant access to the inner buildings without specific duties, you know."

Relief unexpectedly coursed through Sherlock. He couldn't withhold his smile. "You haven't seen the keep?"

"No, except for limited tours when visiting my sister."

"Come, then."

Sherlock led John back into the warm dry halls.

John marveled at his apartments. They were significantly more luxurious that anything a knight would encounter, except for those born into great wealth. The sitting room was cluttered with books, scrolls, appendices, and catalogued samples. Old disorganized trunks of the few items he had brought from Greyhurst inhabited one corner, and the main table was completely covered in loose papers and ink stands.

"You're welcome to come whenever you wish," Sherlock offered. "I can inform the chamberlains to allow you access."

John thereafter visited as frequently as possible, when he could relieve himself of his duties with the other knights. He often occupied himself by sifting through Sherlock's library, which was significantly larger than any other he'd seen, save for inside monasteries. Despite John's consistency, Sherlock continually found himself surprised when the knight appeared at his chamber door.

Sherlock spent much of his time sorting through the copious observational notes he had managed to gather on their rides. His ultimate aim was to compile a guide on the properties and applications of local plants, but the work was slow and tedious without access to the woods. John occasionally volunteered to read through the draft pages, one hand resting against Sherlock's chair in a way that left his nerves experiencing an odd tingle.

One afternoon in late January, Sherlock looked up from his work to find John engrossed in an English copy of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_.

"You read the vernacular of the peasants?" Sherlock asked, genuinely amused.

John, seated in a simple padded armchair, flipped to the next page. "I try. It's useful for communication. Speaking it is far easier."

"A harsh language, compared to French or Latin. I've never bothered to learn it, myself," said Sherlock. "I would suggest Chaucer. Far higher quality, if you're intent on wallowing in the habits of the common."

"I prefer stories about knights," responded John. He paused in his reading, brow bent in confusion. "Why do you possess English books when you neither speak nor read the language?"

"Collecting books is a hobby of mine."

"An expensive and time consuming pastime," John rebuked as he returned to his book.

"Yes, but gratifying."

Sherlock hesitated before continuing his writing. He contemplatively rolled his pen in his fingers.

"Do they know where you come, on days like this?" he inquired with forced casualness.

John's eyes flicked up for the briefest glance. "No," he answered.

\---

The knights entertained themselves through the winter as always; drinking, eating, telling tales, practicing when feasible, and dreaming about their lady loves. It was comfortable, yet boring, and all were glad to see the snowy days pass. The season had proved far less tedious for John, but he refrained from telling Sir Gregory and the others about his continued visits with Sherlock. He didn't need to grant them extra material for ridicule.

Sir Tobias was the first to notice his regular absences. At first, he simply asked John how his sister fared, but upon receiving no confirmation as to John's destination each day he abruptly stopped confronting him about it. After that, Tobias passed a knowing look to Sir William each time John announced his departure. Whispers amongst the knights followed, and by late January Sir Gregory took John aside and admitted that they all knew the truth. In fact, one of the chamberlains had confirmed that he regularly passed into the secured keep. Obviously, John must be engaged in a secret affair with one of the high ladies of the castle.

Suppressing a laugh, John made no answer. It truly didn't matter what sort of excuse the knights proposed, as anything they were likely to invent was bound to be false. Silence proved his ally, and so John remained quiet on the matter.

John found that he liked keeping the secret. The last thing he wanted was an intruding presence disrupting his peaceful haven from the often coarse and unpleasant life in the garrison. Spending time with Sherlock was often calming, despite the lord's uneven moods and often unpredictable behavior. It was a counterweight to his own lifestyle of rote schedule and duty rosters. John found himself unexpectedly captivated.

The days gradually grew warmer. After nearly a week of pestering from Sherlock, John finally agreed to return to their daily rides in mid-February. In his mind, it seemed a terrible idea - the river would be swollen with water, and the entire forest excessively dampened and muddy.

True to his fears, the woods showed evidence of frail recovery from the winter season. Even worse, the skies threatened to burst with a fresh round of heavy rain. Sherlock's excitement at being outside the castle radiated like the sun, and he immediately galloped off down the slick trail on his palfrey. John contented himself with travelling on his courser at a slow walk, avoiding the dripping trees and murky puddles in his path.

He no longer held any fears about Sherlock attempting to escape. There were times in their previous rides where John had left him alone for an hour or more at a time, and upon returning the lord had moved nary an inch. In fact, Sherlock often reacted with oblivious confusion in finding that John had been absent.

John steered his horse through a flooded rivulet crossing the trail. The forest proved unnervingly quiet, most birds not yet returned for the spring. Cracked and splintered branches left over from winter storms littered the woods and parts of the path. John dismounted to clear several away, dragging the obstructive limbs off to the side of the trail.

Task completed, John glanced around the still-empty wood for signs of Sherlock. At the speed he was last seen travelling, the lord should have completed any roundabout ride by now. John grew suddenly wary, meticulously searching the nearby woods with heightened awareness.

John noticed a large tawny object against a tree in a clearing off the main trail. He cautiously approached, leading his bay by its reins.

A deer carcass hung from the thick limb of the tree. Poaching in the Duke's wood was highly illegal, and killing a deer constituted the worst offense of all. John pushed the body with one gloved hand, watching it swing slowly. The amount of blood drained from the animal suggested it had been dead only an hour or two, at most.

" _Eh? Who are you?"_ demanded a voice in English.

John spun, finding a bedraggled man standing behind him in the clearing. His face was gaunt and thin, clothing hanging from his spindly frame. The man, clearly in the midst of starvation, clamped a dull and rusted skinning knife in one hand.

" _Are you the poacher who killed this deer?"_ John responded in the same language, stumbling a bit over the words. His hand drifted to his sword hilt.

The man's eyes swept between the expensive steel, the nearby warhorse, and the golden serpent of Moriarty on John's chest. " _You're a knight_ ," he replied dumbly.

" _That's not what I asked. Are you the poacher?"_

A rustling in the nearby brush suddenly produced two other disheveled peasants. Between them, they pulled a struggling Sherlock. His clothing sported streaks of mud and woodland debris.

"John!" he called, eyes wide.

John froze, watching as the pair brought Sherlock to the first man. They eyed John suspiciously. " _We found him looking at our traps._ "

" _Release him_ ," John ordered, subduing his panic and allowing his training to rise forefront.

One of the two men holding Sherlock produced a long skinning knife and held it to his neck. It appeared far sharper than the one held by the first man.

"Stupid. I wasn't paying attention," Sherlock said dourly, twisting in their grasps.

" _He's with the knight, I think_ ," the first man told his two fellow poachers. Sherlock fought even harder against their arms, coming dangerously close to the blade.

"Don't move, Sherlock," John told him.

He stopped moving as much, but John could see Sherlock was clearly considering a rash course of action. It was wiser that John ended things here and now. By force, if necessary.

John slid his sword half out of its scabbard. The poachers flinched at the rasping noise, eyes drawn to the shining blade.

"John..." Sherlock said warily, staring at the sword as well.

" _If you kill him, you will receive far greater punishment than for simple poaching,"_ John threatened. _"Do you know who that is_?"

The man holding the long knife looked down briefly. " _Lord Holmes. We seen him riding plenty of times_."

Sherlock frowned at the mention of his name.

" _He's my friend, and also under my protection. If you harm him, I can guarantee that you won't be brought to the Duke for judgment._ "

" _You're a knight_ ," the unarmed peasant said. " _You can't just kill folks. There's rules._ "

"What are you saying to them, John?"

"Be silent, Sherlock. _I promise you, none at Northrop will question my actions. It is in your interest that Lord Holmes be released to me at once_."

" _Our families are starving. We just want the deer,"_ said the wielder of the long knife.

" _The deer belongs to my liege the Duke, and the man you are holding belongs in my care. You will take neither."_

Sherlock was supremely agitated. "John!" he shouted, frustrated.

A warning glare from John silenced the lord. The poachers nervously considered his threats.

The one with the dull knife pointed at John's courser. " _Get on your horse and leave. Come back in a half hour. We will leave him unharmed, tied to the tree._ "

" _As I said, he is under my protection. I do not trust you. Depart now, or risk death_."

The man holding Sherlock tensed.

John hadn't fought in true combat for almost ten months, but his reflexes proved as fast as ever. His dagger was unsheathed from his belt in one moment and impaling the nearest poacher in the chest at the next. The other two men startled at the rapid attack, terror in their eyes. As John pulled his sword fully free of its scabbard, the man with the long knife struck Sherlock's head with the handle of his blade, knocking him down. The two poachers then fled, abandoning their deceased friend behind in the grass.

John ran to where Sherlock lay on the mossy forest floor. He stole a last glance at the poachers disappearing into the underbrush, but his ire at their escape was eclipsed by his concern for Sherlock.

The lord's eyes were open but unfocused. John knelt next to him, stark worry paralyzing his lungs.

"Are you injured?"

Sherlock moved his head, familiar expression returning. "No. That idiot hardly knew how to properly knock someone unconscious." He raised himself on one arm, to a half-sitting position. "I've decided it might be prudent to learn rudimentary English."

He lifted his eyes to meet John's, and a strange reaction swept through the knight.

The atmosphere suddenly turned thick as molasses, heavy tension spreading between them. Sherlock's pale blue gaze inspected him openly, without pretense or defensive facade. It was the most honest expression John had ever received from the lord, an invitation that conveyed the deepest of trust. John became acutely aware of their proximity, the insignificant angles and distances that separated them. He straightened slightly, overcome by the sensation.

After a breathless moment, John cleared his throat and blinked several times. A complex and confusing emotional residue lingered. "I... believe that's sufficient riding for today."

\---

Sherlock strolled nonchalantly through the halls of Northrop's keep, attempting to pacify his mind in preparation for another audience with the Duke.

There existed only one feasible explanation for the summons. The Duke avoided any unnecessary contact with Sherlock, so it was simple to deduce that Mycroft's child had arrived. Sherlock irrefutably hoped that the child was male so that he might finally, _finally_ be free of this wretched castle and all the wretched people within it.

Well, perhaps not _all_. Although an intermittent sleeper at the best of times, Sherlock had spent the previous evening lying awake in his room awash in all the possibilities that freedom might provide. If the Duke confirmed his release, Sherlock would ask John to come to Greyhurst as soon as he could be discharged from service at Northrop. Mycroft would hardly object to hiring a knight that had saved his brother's life. It was a perfect plan.

Sherlock was adamant that he not be parted from John. That fleeting moment during their calamitous first ride of the season confirmed as much. At last, Sherlock had understood the nature of the growing bond between them. It wasn't a misguided one-sided friendship on Sherlock's part; for a time, the connection had been frighteningly palpable in the air. John, the open book that he was, had displayed a complicated range of emotional reactions that mirrored Sherlock's own. A profound shift in their relationship had occurred.

He was in love with John. How deeply the knight returned the sentiment was unknown, but John had obviously felt something. The promise of that observation had unrelentingly elevated Sherlock's heart rate for the past several days. Weather still too unpleasant for riding, he had settled for sporadically seeing John practicing with the other knights in the yard. Each time, he had experienced an unmistakable sense of deep affection for the knight.

Sir Sebastian Moran was waiting impatiently outside the Duke's chambers as Sherlock approached. He smirked at the brutish knight, who sneered in return. Sir Sebastian was likely experiencing ample amounts of waiting now that he was attached to Lord James. The knight had a hand placed on his sword hilt, glaring menacingly as Sherlock pulled open the heavy carved door.

Grey February daylight streamed into the Duke's grand receiving room from wide-paneled glass windows. Duke Moriarty reclined in his plush chair. Lord James hovered near the fireplace, absorbing every detail as Sherlock entered. The young lord fractionally raised an eyebrow in a subtle taunt. _Have you admired my new pet outside?_ Sherlock wondered whether John could defeat Sir Sebastian in a one-on-one fight. Undoubtedly not, with his weak shoulder.

The Duke himself displayed a wan disposition, sweating lightly with glassy eyes. At this time of year, colds were rampant in the castle. Downing  a sip from his ever-present wine goblet, the Duke coughed sickeningly. "It is a boy," he announced, ignoring the prescribed salutatory protocols.

The world grew lighter. Sherlock stifled any appearance of visible relief. Lord James likely saw through the false expression, but at that moment he hardly cared. That putrescent rat of a lord could witness whatever he pleased, if it meant Sherlock's release.

"Shall I begin my preparations for departure, my lord?" Sherlock asked with false propriety.

The Duke coughed once more. "No, Sherlock. I've decided on another course of action."

It was torment to have freedom dangled in front of him so mercilessly. Sherlock's carefully stowed aggression began to surge. "If your lordship would perhaps... explain?"

"Your value to me has not diminished with the birth of your nephew."

Sherlock betrayed a disparaging frown. "That belies all probability, my lord. The Holmes line will continue, no matter the length of my imprisonment. I am worthless except as a symbol of sentiment. And the longer I am removed from Greyhurst, the less my brother will be averted by your efforts."

"On the contrary. You are quite valuable in ways you do not suspect," the Duke replied, adorned with the smile of a conqueror. "I believe it's past time you were wed, Lord Holmes."

The announcement caught Sherlock completely off guard. Uncontrolled surprise escaped, showing clearly on his face. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock detected James' delighted grin.

Ignoring the display, the Duke elaborated. "I have begun negotiations with Earl Adler of Beaton for the hand of his only daughter and heir. If all follows my expectations, you will be wed to her by summer's end."

"My brother-"

"Your brother has deferred to any union that I see fit to create. I possess a letter from him, signed and sealed. He has conceded to my authority in this matter as his sworn liege lord. Upon your marriage you will remain my vassal, and thusly her father's lands will combine with my own and benefit from my firm administrations."

A numbness crept through Sherlock. "Regretfully, I decline, my lord."

The Duke bore a mildly angry expression, clashing poorly with his blanched countenance. "Rejection is not an option, Lord Holmes. I know your youthful ilk. Dreams of love and devotion, as with those fool knights. This is reality. There is no love, and there exists no choice. It's a political matter, and I have been granted authority over your union."

Sherlock stared steadfastly at the wall. Hard experience told him it would only exacerbate the circumstance to argue with the Duke in a moment like this.

Duke Moriarty's expression relaxed into a good-natured grin. "Oh, cheer up, lad. The Lady Irene is a beautiful woman, by all accounts. Wealthy, powerful, and quite well-connected. Any man of stature would fall madly in love with her at first glance. From what I hear, several already have - there are at minimum three other competing matches."

His heart skipped a beat. "Then there is a chance her father will not follow through?"

"Certainly. I highly doubt that will occur, however. I am by far the most influential interested party. We'll keep this between us, for now. Nothing will be announced until the match is confirmed." The Duke coughed again and placed his goblet on a nearby table. "You are dismissed, Lord Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact #1: Wolves were not completely exterminated in England until around 1600.  
> Fun fact #2: During the middle ages, nobility in England primarily spoke a French dialect. Latin was used as well, most prominently in the church.


	3. In Which They Know

The lord had been watching him carefully for the last half hour. John attempted to ignore Sherlock, instead paying attention to the rushing river and torrential waterfall. The melt from the nearby hills brought dangerous turbulence to the river at this time of year.

After a week's hiatus, their rides had commenced for the season in full form. Much of the spring foliage had yet to return, so Sherlock concentrated on cataloging the plants that had survived winter and insisted on practicing conversational English with John.

John was still attempting to sort through their strange encounter from that first day back. Upon reminiscing about it, the strength of his attachment to Sherlock had been mounting steadily throughout their time together. The evident tension between them had forced his feelings into sharp perspective, but they remained confusing and difficult to accept. John had always held romantic interest in women alone, but the might of his emotions toward Sherlock was unsettlingly powerful. He'd determined to ignore it.

It was difficult. There were moments when mere proximity to Sherlock was intense enough to disturb John's heart rhythm.

There was a persistent underlying  layer of tension on their rides, now. Sherlock was far too intelligent not to have noticed, but he hadn't spoken of it. Instead, Sherlock deferred to staring when he assumed John was distracted by some other activity.

John tossed a few more smooth stones into the swollen river. The water moved so rapidly that they disappeared instantly upon hitting the surface. He glanced back, and Sherlock continued watching him, brow furrowed in deep thought.

"All right, what is your concern?" he asked loudly, irritated.

Sherlock abruptly emerged from his introspective daze. "What?"

"Are you attempting to smite me with your mind? What are you doing?"

"No. No, I've simply become... curious."

Another rock disappeared into the frothy expanse. "About what?"

"I spoke with Master Michael yesterday. He explained your father's house is not two days' ride from here."

Oh. This was an unexpected topic. John tightly gripped the last stone in his hand, shoulders tensing.

"You've refrained from visiting since you arrived," Sherlock noted.

It wasn't a query, but John answered nonetheless."Yes, that's correct."

He turned to the flowing water, throwing the stone violently into its depths.

Sherlock's stayed silent. He wouldn't press any further. John glanced at the waterfall, watching the spray for a few moments. He remembered how Sherlock had trusted him with the truth about his captivity. In the end, it was only fair that John divulge his own burdens.

Finally, he faced Sherlock again, who continued to stare intently.

"I haven't spoken to my father in nearly ten years, since after my knighthood," John clarified, returning the gaze evenly. "He's not a prominent landowner. Nowhere near your brother's holdings. But he was able to financially support me during my tenure as a squire.  I rarely saw him - I was always off attending older and more experienced knights, learning to ride and fight. During my absence he was not idle."

Sherlock didn't respond, simply waiting for John to continue.

"My father incurred extreme debts from illegal gambling. His land, his property, everything his father bequeathed him and that which he built for himself is no longer his. There is nothing for me to inherit."

He waited for a reply, but received none.

"My sister was married at age seventeen to an elderly minor lord. It was his second marriage and he demonstrated little interest in Harriet, who fell to ill habits in excessive drink. He died four years later, endowing everything to his eldest son from his first marriage. My sister was left penniless, only saved by the grace of the Duchess, who holds her in high esteem. Harriet remains here at her pleasure. She does not seek to wed again despite my suggestions, and I have little to provide for her future. She does not know the extent of our father's shame."

"And the Duke?" Sherlock asked finally, cocking his head.

"The Duke has much to attend, and I doubt he personally knows of the mismanagement. His estate has reclaimed the property from my father's debtors, and I understand the plan is to absorb the land into his current holdings and use it to reward some other faithful vassal. I refuse to ask after it."

He stooped to grab a few more stones and threw them into the river as well.

"You've never told anyone about that," Sherlock observed, mild disbelief in his voice.

John didn't bother to confirm the statement. Sherlock had surely deduced its truth.

\---

The first troubadour of the season arrived in early March. Such performers were far rarer in England than on the continent, so the ladies of the court ensured the singer was engaged at every possible moment.

Lady Molly sat delicately on a long stone bench in the Duchess' private enclosed terrace, listening to the minstrel's tunes. Large flowering plants and trees lined the courtyard, creating dappled shadows from the spring sunlight. An assortment of high ladies, finely embroidered dresses spread neatly around them, engaged in needlework, reading, friendly gossip, or watched the singer. The Duchess herself oversaw all from her padded ironwork chair.

Lady Harriet entered the courtyard, cynically glancing at the troubadour, and claimed a seat between Molly and Lady Clara. She produced a small object wrapped in a handkerchief.

"Sir Tobias sends you another gift, Clara," Harriet said, a sly smile accompanying the gift. "He hailed me on my journey here and thrust this into my hands."

Clara sighed audibly, taking the wrapped parcel from Harriet. Inside was a forge-made silver pin in the shape of a hunting horn. There was a note underneath, and Clara lifted it to read. "He writes to me now, as well. ' _My dearest lady, I beg that you graciously accept this token of my deepest devotion. My heart bursts upon seeing your radiant smile. Your eyes shine like glistening raindrops on a moonlit evening-_ '... oh, for Heaven's sake, this prattling continues for a significant portion of this letter... _'Please meet me at the stables tomorrow evening at midnight, if you hold me dear as I do you. I am, and shall remain, your most faithful servant. Sir Tobias Gregson_ '."

"That pin bears his personal sigil, I believe," replied Harriet, nearly doubled in suppressed laughter.

"I have already informed the misguided knight that he does not currently, not shall he ever, receive my affections," Clara said, gazing at Harriet.

"He is persistent," commented Molly. "You cannot fault him on that."

"Persistent was a month ago. This debacle is now entirely foolhardy and frankly, quite embarrassing. He bothers me relentlessly, even as I deny him."

"It's hardly embarrassing when compared to other attempts at secret courtship," said Mary. "The rumors persist that Sir William Murray is pursuing the Duchess."

They all glanced at the regal woman, posed daintily in her stately chair and talking lightly with another of her ladies.  The Duchess was an imposing woman, nearly twice the age of most of the younger women in her company. The hilarious rumors about Sir William's amorous intentions had provided the ladies with many hours of entertainment.

"I hope the Duke does not hear. Sir William is misguided, but he does not deserve punishment," Molly intoned. "We should not speak of it, lest the information pass to unsympathetic parties."

"Then offer some other morsel to amuse us, Molly," challenged Clara. "Tell it true! Your interludes with Sir Gregory are most infamous, and it is futile to deny them!"

Molly felt her face grow warm. "There is little to tell, Clara. He sends me poetry often, and claims to have commissioned a ballad in my honor. He abstains from meeting me."

"A curious knight," Lady Harriet commented.

"He is from Normandy, and I am told he considers courtly romance a most austere pursuit," explained Lady Mary. "It is likely he holds to the ideals of worship from afar."

"What shall I do, then?" Molly asked.

"He needs to feel he has earned your affections. It would not be amiss to ignore his advances until he demonstrates a truly remarkable feat of devotion," replied Mary.

Harriet shook her head. "That seems entirely illogical, Mary. Clearly, she adores him."

"I've spent time in the courts of France," Clara said. "Truly, the romantic actions of the knights there are beyond belief. They _prefer_ to work tirelessly and discover their efforts rewarded. It's the only route to maintaining their interest. A prize easily won is no prize at all."

"I am not a prize," insisted Molly. "This is not a game. I truly believe Sir Gregory loves me, as I do him."

"You have known few knights well, then," replied Harriet. "To them we are all prizes to be won and boasted about in front of their comrades. My brother John has informed me on the opinions and actions of his brethren. It is simple to read through the boisterous pronouncements and determine their attitudes."

"I find it difficult to believe John would spout such a negative assessment of his comrades," Mary said.

"Not in so many words, but I would think I can decipher my brother's meanings, Mary. You are enamored of him, I think, and unwilling to consider he might possess distasteful notions."

Mary blushed faintly, and gazed down at her folded hands. "He is a virtuous knight, and I see nothing amiss in thinking well of him."

"I am rarely so overt," Harriet replied in dramatic fashion, "but my brother has seemed strangely occupied of late. Does he hold some secret to which you pertain, Mary?"

"No! I would never- no!" Mary replied, scandalized. "Shadowy intrigues are highly dangerous."

Harriet glanced disbelievingly at Clara, who rolled her eyes.

"Is this what you all believe?" asked Mary, face growing redder.

"It's one of many rumors circulating," confirmed Molly. "Oh! Speaking of such, a steward informed me of a rumor that the Duke is considering arranging a marriage for Lord Sherlock."

"A blessing on Northrop," lauded Harriet. "The sooner he is gone the better for us all."

"I don't know, I suppose I might miss him," answered Molly.

Clara laughed. "You are the only person with whom I am acquainted that has ever held a positive opinion of that hateful man. You were infatuated with him once, I think."

"Years ago, perhaps," said Molly. "I hope he finds someone who brings him happiness."

"Unlikely, if the marriage is arranged," replied Harriet dismissively. "Woe be to the woman who secures him."

Molly offered a careful smile. She watched Sherlock far more closely than he suspected. His behavior had altered over the last few months. Just as Sir John's had, she affirmed to herself knowingly. Molly's smile widened. 

\---

The month of March brought regular rainstorms, but, to Sherlock's great satisfaction, he and John managed to escape the castle more days than not.

They were terminating today's trip earlier than usual due to a heavy storm front that brooded menacingly above the treetops. Now barely halfway returned through the Duke's wood, a moderate drizzle was pelting them persistently. John preferred to travel at a conservative pace during inclement weather to prevent any injuries to the horses. Soaked thoroughly, Sherlock detested the decision.

He flicked his head sharply in an effort to remove the hair plastered to his head, blocking his vision. "This weather is detestable."

"You should not have forgotten your hooded cloak at the castle, then," John chastised. With his shorter hair and well-weathered leathers, he hardly seemed to acknowledge the rain.

Sherlock grumbled to himself. He glanced at the knight, warmth welling within. "You're quite the study in contrast, John."

The knight tilted his head curiously as the rain increased to a steady downpour. "How so?"

"You exhibit remarkable respect and courtesy for a knight."

"I strive to adhere to the ideals of chivalry in all things," John remarked over the pattering of raindrops.

"Many of your comrades do not display such honorable conduct," observed Sherlock.

"Each man struggles differently. But you have not said in what way I contrast?"

"When pressed, another nature emerges; your ire is fearsome to behold, at such times."

John laughed. "That is part of chivalrous behavior as well, Sherlock. I fight honorably and with vigor for my liege."

"Is that for whom you fought when faced with those poachers? The Duke?" Sherlock questioned.

"I fought for your life, if you must know. Loyalty is another great virtue of knighthood, and I would not abandon a friend easily," John noted. "Did you know you are contrasted as well?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sweeping aside his soaked hair once more.

"You hide yourself, I think," John said, browed furrowed.

"I am as accessible as anyone."

"I disagree. There is a falsified mask that you wear constantly, delivering altered versions of yourself to fit your audience. You have worn them at such a length, I believe even _you_ have forgotten yourself. I cannot imagine who you would be if not detained these last eight years."

"I am who I am. There is no point in speculating," Sherlock replied harshly.

"No, there isn't. But you enjoy manipulating people's perception of you. You collect their outrage like victories. It takes effort to see you underneath it all."

"And who am I underneath?"

"I don't yet fully know," John said simply.

The deluge continued to strengthen, rattling the fragile spring leaves violently and echoing through the cavernous trees. Sherlock didn't notice John was no longer next to him until he had travelled ten paces from the knight. He turned his horse and witnessed John attempting to yell something at him, pointing off the side of the road. The rain proved too heavy, as the thundering cacophony absorbed the sounds of his voice.

He forced his palfrey back down the trail and stopped next to John, who leaned in close. "We should take shelter until the rain ceases!" He pointed again, but Sherlock couldn't distinguish the target. Water dripped into his eyes.

Sherlock nodded anyway. John led him about twenty yards off the path to a rocky overhang, too shallow to be termed a cave and yet deep enough to allow them both underneath. Sherlock quickly dismounted in the downpour and hastily tied his reins to a nearby wet branch. The horses would have to make do outside.

They sat beside one another, leaning against the stony wall and thankful to be protected from the rain.

"John, I think I should tell you," Sherlock said abruptly, cautiously glancing at the knight.

John watched him with compassionate blue eyes, his hair dripping from the rain.

"It's not official, and no one yet knows. Duke Moriarty has begun brokering a marriage for me with the daughter of Earl Adler."

A brief spread of silence.

"That- that's not within his power," John replied after a moment, concern flooding his face. "You're not a ward, and you've reached the age of majority. Only your brother could force such a decision."

"The Duke has assured me that Mycroft granted his approval to form whatever strategic alliance the Duke thinks best." Sherlock smiled scornfully. "I was suspicious as well, but I broke into his secretary's  locked files and found the letter. Mycroft's seal and signature was upon it."

"I don't understand. Why would your brother allow that?"

"Threats of harm against my person, possibly. His son is most important, now. The new heir. Appeasing the Duke in this matter may be his only avenue to ensure safety."

John gazed out into the rain-drenched woods where the torrent had not yet diminished. His utter distress conjured an expansive warm feeling in Sherlock's chest. Sherlock placed a tentative hand on his shoulder in what he hoped was a consoling gesture. John appeared to be processing the information.

Finally, John turned back to him, eyes resolute. He vibrated with tense energy. "We'll see what can be done. This can't be legally sound. We'll make inquiries, perhaps even request a representative of the king to cast judgment upon the case."

Sherlock laughed. "I believe you're more upset than I."

"This isn't fair."

Sherlock watched him evenly, adopting a more serious tone. "John, my life has proven an endless pageant of unfair. I am unfairly used as a disincentive for my brother. I am unfairly imprisoned by a family I despise to the very core of my being. An unfair marriage is hardly the first offense cast upon me."

This close, pressed up against John, Sherlock could easily detect the increase in the knight's heart rate. John searched his face, expression relaxing marginally.

"If life were fair, I would reside at Greyhurst with my brother. James would be rotting at the bottom of a river. You would possess an inheritance and the means to ensure a comfortable future for yourself and your sister. But that's not the way of life, and we cannot have everything we want."

John's eyes settled on Sherlock, who was unable to identify the source of the erratic heartbeat he felt.

"It's important we recognize what we _can_ have, John. There is little else worth living for."

The kiss was so violent that Sherlock was unsure of what was happening, at first. Both of John's hands were buried in the hair at the back of his head, pushing him forward until he met John's mouth. As he recovered his spatial awareness, Sherlock was able to wrap his own arms around John. The knight's efforts were so forceful that he could detect little else than wet, warm pressure. Sherlock leaned in, following where the guiding hands led.

John careened backward, one arm releasing from Sherlock to support himself on the dusty stone. The weight was too much, however, and he collapsed hard on his back, Sherlock in tow.

Sherlock quickly pulled back his head and lifted himself on his own arms. Panic rushed through him. "Are you all right, John?"

John looked slightly dazed, but he answered by laughing uncontrollably. Sherlock checked the back of John's head with one hand, searching for injury. He only felt rain-damp hair, and his hand came away clean.

"This isn't humorous, John. I've witnessed people whose head injuries completely altered their personalities. I don't want you to change."

Cutting off his laughter, John's eyes softened. His smile was sweet and brimming with adoration. "I'm fine. And I promise not to change as long as you swear the same."

His emotions suddenly overwhelmed him, stirring in such force that he could hardly breathe. This couldn't be possible, this depth and complexity of feeling unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He desired to open his chest and lay his still-beating heart on the cold stones to show John just how deeply he had been fragmented.

Sherlock leaned in closer, right hand brushing the soft hair behind John's ear, and locked eyes. "There's only one thing I'll swear, sir knight, and it is this: I have never loved in all my days, and I never will again. There is only one, and it is only you."

John's smile faded into an intense stare. He gently pulled Sherlock lower, fastening a tender kiss on his lips. With trembling hands he held Sherlock close, foreheads nearly touching, and squeezed his eyes shut. Sherlock watched, transfixed, as a heavy surge of emotion passed through his knight's tense body. John let out a slow breath before meeting his eyes again.

"I've searched for so long. For a fight, a woman, a purpose. I thought I knew what it meant to find peace. Had I known that I could feel this way, I would have set it all aside and run to you from across the entire world."

Sherlock smiled and ducked his head into the crook of John's neck, breathing him in. It was an astonishing feeling, and one of the few times in his life he had ever felt truly awed. This knight, this unlikely person, who reciprocated such a vast and incomprehensible thing. A hand rose to his back, pressing him closer with gentle strength.

"What are we to do?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered with honest uncertainty.

\---

Gregory often enjoyed the rambunctious tales his comrades divulged during supper. However, he was grateful at the Duke's interruption during this sixth retelling of Sir William's purported feat of training a horse to break a man's arm with its teeth.

The Duke stood shakily, still pale from his winter illness. He set down his goblet and a hush filled the great hall. "There is grand news to share with all my honored noble guests and valiant servicemen. I am most pleased to formally announce the engagement of our own Lord Sherlock Holmes to Lady Irene Adler, daughter of our esteemed friend the Earl Adler. The influence and power of House Moriarty, as well as that of the Adler family, will grow to exceedingly new heights with this union. The Earl had graciously invited my entire court to visit his household at Beaton in celebration. The wedding shall commence at mid-summer here at Castle Northrop."

The occupants of the great hall broke into riotous applause and excited chatter. Gregory exchanged uproarious grins with the other knights at the table, who lauded the feasting and parties that would follow. Tobias offered several raunchy wedding-themed jests. John looked slightly ill, and Gregory hoped the Duke's ailment was not catching. Sebastian growled about wishing a tournament would accompany the festivities.

"Half the men-at-arms are excited to drink themselves blind, and the other half are simply pleased to see Lord Sherlock departed!" exclaimed Tobias.

"Two silver pieces that Lady Irene bursts into tears within five minutes of meeting him," challenged William.

"I'll take that bet, sir. Except mark me down for three minutes," answered Gregory with a grin. William laughed boisterously and they shook hands.

Gregory noticed the stillness of John, whose eyes were on the high table. His gaze was strangely fixated.

"Have you a problem, Sir John?" Gregory asked him as the others turned to more topical concerns.

"None should be forced into an arranged marriage without their consent," John commented bitterly.

"What grounds have you to complain? It is extraordinarily common for the high nobility," Gregory argued. "I would likely be trapped in one as well, if I were at home. A strong incentive to remain here, you see."

"I lament his circumstances nonetheless."

"Surely you do not consider him a friend, now?" asked Gregory. "I am told he repels all potential friends."

"'Friend' is hardly the appropriate word," John replied quietly, face sullen.

Gregory laughed. "Of course. Perhaps 'acquaintance' would offend you less? Associate? Colleague? Take your pick."

A dour twist passed through John's expression, but he did not answer.


	4. In Which They Fear

John's excursions with Sherlock became his conduit to feeling alive. Around the castle and in the stables they behaved the same as ever, regarding one another with cordial detachment. Other knights routinely attempted to console John about the continuation of his assigned duties, lamenting that he be the only bearable escort that Sherlock hadn't openly offended. Most assumed that he was receiving the same vile treatment as the other knights, but that John was either too complacent or too weak to stand up to the lord. Those comments angered him to no end, but it would be too suspicious to oppose them and suggest he was enjoying the outings.

Their first kiss had come as a spontaneous reaction from John, but once it happened his previous reservations had faded. He was thoroughly besotted, swept up beyond belief in a fervent devotion stronger than he had ever known. Sherlock's pending engagement proved highly upsetting, but John resolved to enjoy what they had while they had it.

Spring attracted other nobility to the woods during the day, so Sherlock and John spent considerable time riding with a veil of impassiveness. Their shared knowledge of the secluded areas of the forest proved advantageous, and each day they would arrive at a randomly selected new location.

Fearful of inappropriately taking advantage of the lord, John endeavored to respectfully maintain his distance at first. Sherlock, confused about protocol in such a situation, spent several days in perplexed limbo. Eventually, he discovered that John did not resist during attempts at kissing or manhandling. His study of the local plant species slowed dramatically after that.

John was still a knight, however, and there were certain standards of proper conduct to which he adhered. Despite Sherlock's protestations, he refused to participate in anything beyond kissing in the woods. Anything more would leave them far to susceptible to intrusion. Besides, it too closely resembled something dirty and desperate, and he felt Sherlock deserved better treatment. When John reached the point of sensing a growing heat low in his abdomen, he would abruptly break things off and walk a brief patrol. Sherlock was always disappointed, but there was little to be done.

John always kept one eye on the surrounding area, watching for trespassers who might discover them. Sherlock complained about his split attention, and John was forced to repeatedly remind him of the consequences if their secret were revealed. Extremely powerful lords might be able to convince others to look the other way in regards to such an affair, but if the Duke found out John would certainly be disallowed from escorting Sherlock each day. Sherlock would be watched far more closely, and likely kept secured in the keep until his wedding.

Often, though, Sherlock would be content with John seated close by, watching as he worked with his specimens.

"In all the courtly romance tales, the knights are not to touch the object of their desire," John remarked one afternoon. They sat in a crevice between enormous twisted tree roots which both shaded and concealed them. Sherlock had discovered several varieties of mushroom and was busily sketching.

"Why would a knight accept such a rule?" the lord asked.

"In the stories, the ladies are of higher stature and unattainable. The knights believe the most pure form of love is that which is not physical. They seek to prove their love through valorous acts and show their devotion from afar."

"Do you know any knights who have perfectly followed that example?"

John smiled. "No, although I believe Sir Gregory is doing admirably. He abides by those standards."

"He's found more success in emulating the tales than you."

"It's never too late to amend my behavior, if that is your wish," John teased.

Sherlock set aside his folio and rose to a kneeling position. He pulled John close, one hand sliding up the back of John's leather tunic.

"Good luck in that," Sherlock said as his other hand gripped John's belt, fingers twining around the buckle. John's heart palpitated at the movement.

"No, not here," John chastised, quickly pushing Sherlock's hand away. "Someone might see."

The familiar expression of dissatisfaction crossed Sherlock's face.

"I will seek out a safe opportunity," John told him reassuringly. "You must remain patient."

"I've never known less patience in my life," Sherlock replied, "and I had little to begin with."

John sighed, then separated himself from Sherlock.

"We ought to cease hiding in these nooks for the next two weeks," John recommended. "The knights will be arriving for the tournament and this wood will be brimming with even more bored riders."

"More importantly, you need to prepare," Sherlock admonished, sitting down again and taking up his folio.

"I'll hardly be winning anything. I can't effectively compete in the melee with my shoulder. The joust is my only remaining event."

John watched Sherlock carefully for a moment, picking at the rough bark of the nearby root.

"You're aware it's tradition for the knights at the tournament to wear favors," John stated indifferently, casually breaking off a piece of bark and throwing it aside.

Sherlock stared flatly at him. "No."

"Why not?"

"It's an idiotic notion."

John hadn't realized how disappointed he'd feel when Sherlock inevitably denied him. "It's... important to me."

"John, you warn me _constantly_. Nothing suspicious, nothing obvious. If anything could be categorized under such a definition, it would be this."

"Hundreds of knights will be participating from all the surrounding shires. Even several French champions, I hear. At least a dozen will be brandishing mysterious tokens - nothing will seem amiss. I promise to be careful."

"You _reside_ here, John," exclaimed Sherlock. "You will effectively announce it to everyone with whom we are acquainted."

"Everyone is already suspicious!" retorted John. "They are entirely convinced I am secretly seeing Lady Mary, and there is no reasonable way to disengage their curiosity. It's not going to diminish."

"This is tantamount to confirming their suspicions. The questions will only come more diligently."

"Please," John asked sincerely. "Please, Sherlock. A knight is not supposed to ask for a favor."

Sherlock paused at his tone, considering. "Have you ever worn one?"

"No. I've received several offers, but they originated from strange women I disliked. I did not want them."

"This would be your first," Sherlock stated, a faint possessiveness emerging in his voice.

"My first and only. I've never felt strongly enough about someone to desire one," John affirmed.

The next day, Sherlock delivered to John an old, thin blue scarf. It had belonged to his mother, but she had discovered him playing with it so often as a child that she allowed him to keep it. He had transported it at the bottom of one of his trunks to Northrop, but never removed it. No one would know its origin.

John folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket for safe-keeping.

\---

Sirs Gregory, Tobias, and William were lounging against a shaded stone wall, seated on hewn wooden benches and watching the young squires taking lessons in the yard. Sherlock observed them offhandedly from around the corner of the wall, unnoticed but able to hear their conversation.

"My Duchess is the cleverest of women," Sir William declared. "There is an ancient oak on the northern slope beyond the castle. I ride there on occasion, and just yesterday I made another jaunt. Inside a hollowed knot in the tree, I discovered two crossed dove feathers. It is a sign, gentlemen. The Duchess sends me messages of love."

"Spoken or written, that was the challenge," replied Gregory. "Oddly arranged bird feathers garner no interest from me."

Sherlock edged around the corner towards them, finally gaining the knights' attention.

"Lord Sherlock! Congratulations on your engagement," announced Sir Gregory cordially. "I'm sure your intended is as lovely as a summer rose."

Sherlock forced a smile as he sauntered closer. "No doubt."

The three watched him hesitantly, waiting for him to reveal his purpose.

"Sir John is absent at this time, if you require his services," noted Tobias, as if prodding a poisonous beast.

Sherlock had sampled a great deal of John's services the previous day. He watched the knights with fascinated amusement. They were as hares cornered by a hound.

"I heard an odd rumor about your squire, Anderson the Younger," he said to Gregory with feigned innocence. "It seems he was discovered amidst the scullery in a compromising position with Sally, the marshal's daughter."

Sir Gregory contorted his face in a grimace. "Yes. He will be sufficiently disciplined, I can assure you."

Sherlock sat down beside Sir William. The knight seemed bewildered.

"Haven't you some pressing occupation at this time, my lord?" asked William, drawing back.  

"No, I simply wished to acquaint myself with the knights that Sir John mentions on occasion. Are you truly seducing the Duchess, Sir William?"

Sir William glanced about his compatriots, searching for aid. "That is a private matter, my lord."

"Do you know Sir John is seeing the Lady Mary?" rescued Tobias, changing the subject. "Surely you must harbor critical details, whether through your connections among the high nobles or from John himself."

Sherlock made a show of pondering deeply. "Sir John hardly describes his romantic pursuits of women to me. As for the other nobles, Lady Molly assures me they believe in the theory and routinely attempt to pry the truth from Lady Mary herself. The woman protests any affiliation."

"They are resolute in alleging their innocence toward one another," said Sir Gregory. "It drives my curiosity endlessly."

"Ah, yes, Sir Gregory. That reminds me. Another reason I have come." Sherlock removed a clean yellow handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the knight. "Lady Molly has requested you accept this favor and wear it in her name during the upcoming tournament."

Sir Gregory grinned widely, rubbing the thin linen between his fingers affectionately. "I most certainly shall do so. Please give Lady Molly my compliments."

"Has there been nothing for me from the Lady Clara?" asked Sir Tobias.

Sherlock shook his head. "Lady Clara does not seek my company, as Lady Molly does. I would not be the one to deliver such a favor."

"A pity. She has failed to rendezvous with me these last three instances of requesting her presence. Her schedule is regulated, I know, and it is likely difficult for her to escape the women's quarters late at night."

"I believe you will find her interests quite opposite anything you might provide, sir," Sherlock informed him.

"What? What are you speaking about?"

"You may discover Lady Clara infinitely prefers suitors of the... fairer sex," he clarified.

"Ridiculous! How can you slander my lady in such a way?" Tobias scoffed. "I would know if she were affected by such a perversion. I would know. There would be signs."

"And you would be a master of detecting 'perversion' among those in your midst?" Sherlock asked sardonically. "I'm simply trying to aid you, sir. Clearly, your feeble mind cannot detect anything beyond the barest layer of obviousness."

Sir Tobias shouted several profanities, catching the attention of the squires in the yard. They turned to gawk at the spectacle.

"It may be best for you to leave, my lord," warned Sir Gregory in a sour manner.  

Sherlock smirked, and departed.

\---

The first day of the spring tournament proved sunny and warm, a fresh breeze blowing in from the south. Knights had slowly trickled in from around the countryside for the past fortnight, and by the day of the event a dense forest of brightly liveried tents and flapping heraldic banners spread around the tournament grounds.

Many showcases of combat would be featured, but the prime attraction was the joust. The entire town of Northrop was in attendance for the opening day. The commoners crowded the edges of the lists, thrumming with excitement. Various cheers spontaneously erupted as they waited for the ceremony to begin.

The Duke, although still ailing, had made special effort to attend the event. He delivered several long and complicated pronouncements about the spectacle of sportsmanship and power that a tournament demonstrated. Sherlock, amongst the nobles seated in the comfortable shaded stands, allowed the Duke's strained words to be drowned out by the far more interesting gossip around him.

Suddenly, a loud trumpet blared. The many knights participating  in the competition began their dazzling procession around the field of combat, heralds announcing their names as they entered. Most were unknown household knights from various nearby lords. Several were champions known all throughout England, and a few were French champions who made their living competing in various tournaments. Finally, towards the end, the Duke's own knights made their appearances.

Sir Gregory proved the most popular knight among the entrants from Northrop. His armor was finely crafted and immaculately polished, reflecting the noonday sun in brilliant flashes.  His blood-red fox on pure white stood prominently on his surcoat, hearkening back to images of the noble Crusaders of the past. Lady Molly's yellow handkerchief was tied around his right gauntlet. No doubt it would be stowed in a safer location during the mounted combat. Next to Sherlock in the covered stands, Molly flushed a bright scarlet that matched Sir Gregory's colors. Several of the other ladies applauded loudly for the knight as he passed the stand, but Sir Gregory bowed his head to Molly alone. 

The heavy dark destrier carrying Sir Sebastian came next, adorned in primarily black drapings slashed by white accents. Many agreed Sir Sebastian was the physically strongest knight in the tournament, and was among those favored to win the joust. Passing the stands, Sir Sebastian bore a predatory smile while eyeing the other parading knights. Sherlock caught a glimpse of Lord James smirking at the knight.

Sir Tobias followed after, bedecked in checkered grey and yellow. Sherlock noted that no favor had yet been received from the Lady Clara, and as Tobias went by the stands he leered alluringly at her. Lady Clara released an aggravated sigh from behind Sherlock. Doubtless the knight still held hope that Clara would provide him with a favor.

When John took the field, several of the noblewomen began murmuring. His courser was decorated in forest green, beige hound rearing fiercely on his surcoat and shield. Sherlock gripped the wooden arms of his chair tightly, maintaining a blank expression despite the internal hammering in his chest. John had somehow intertwined the blue scarf with his belt so that both were wrapped securely about his armor, over the surcoat. The scarf proved longer than the belt, and a few inches hung freely next to his scabbard. As he passed the stands, John maintained a straight line of sight but was openly grinning. The quiet conversations continued, and Sherlock hoped to high Heaven that this not be proven a fatal idea. Granted, seeing John wearing something so personal to Sherlock was a deeply enjoyable sight.

Thankfully, Sir William entered the lists wearing his own mysterious favor alongside his white hart and brown embellishments. The whispers increased exponentially; a white ladies' sleeve was tied to his belt.

"That can't be from the Duchess, can it?" wondered Lady Harriet.

"Impossible. He must have stolen it from somewhere to further his charade," answered Lady Clara.

Sherlock glanced at the Duchess far down the row, who displayed the stoic face of a statue. The woman was a master actress, hinting neither scandalous outrage nor embarrassed affection.

The last of the knights were announced and paraded around the field before assembling in front of the Duke. He stood and announced the commencement of the competition.

The tournament lasted a week, and Sherlock saw very little of John except on the field. Like the other knights, he stayed primarily in his tent surrounding the tournament grounds. There were feasting and celebrations every evening, but many of the knights with competitions the next day declined the opportunity to come. Sherlock made sure to attend each of John's jousts, often arriving far earlier or staying later than necessary to hide his pattern of attendance.

John fared far better than he had initially suggested to Sherlock, easily defeating his first several opponents. The older knights proved steadier and more experienced that the younger in such a regulated form of combat. Sir Gregory and Sir Sebastian put in strong showings, but Sir Tobias was eliminated in his third joust. Sir William made it to his fifth, but fell to a French champion who subsequently lost to Sir Sebastian in his next round.

Sherlock found John to be in excellent form, but after a series of brutal rounds the stiffness in the knight's shoulder became more pronounced. Repeated absorptions of lance-strikes breaking onto his shield was causing him visible soreness at the end of the matches. He began opening his posture on the horse, displaying his chest in hopes it would prove a more tempting target.

On the second to last day, John pulled off a miraculous upset against a heavily-favored English champion, which placed him in the championship bout. Sherlock stayed to watch the match that would decide his opponent: Sir Gregory against Sir Sebastian. They shook amicably before the onset of the competition, but Sherlock saw a dangerous glint in the larger man's eyes that clearly communicated that he would not be showing any yield for his commander.

That proved the fatal flaw; Sir Sebastian practiced long hours with Sir Gregory, and knew his style. On their very first tilt, Sebastian struck Gregory high on his chest plate, and the red-clad knight flew with disturbing force off the saddle of his horse. He landed hard in the mud, stunned for several seconds. The impact was so severe that Gregory had barely regained movement in his arms by the time several surgeons arrived to check him. Molly, beside Sherlock, openly cried into another of her handkerchiefs.

Several tense minutes followed as Gregory gradually recovered, the surgeons removing his helm and other constricting pieces of armor to aid his revival. He was finally helped to his feet, taking a few unbalanced steps. Gregory then turned and waved at the massive crowd surrounding the lists. The commoners cheered loudly for his sportsmanship and bravery.

"He accepts his defeat graciously," said Molly, drying her eyes. "A true knight."

The final day of the tournament arrived, and Sherlock took his seat to watch John joust against Sebastian. A great crowd had gathered, matched only by the size of the clustered onlookers from the opening day procession. Almost the entire court filled the shaded stands, waiting for the commencement of the match.

As he waited, Sebastian tugged and tested the reins of his horse. His powerful destrier stamped at the ground impatiently. On the other end, John shifted in his well-worn armor. His courser was far more agile, but such an attribute would do little to help him in a head-on clash like the joust.

The squires handed lances to the knights, and each hefted them in position.

At the flag, they spurred their horses into heavy gallops. It was a sudden sport, and Sherlock caught little other than a spray of splintered wood and the clang of impacted metal as they passed one another. Both had struck solid blows on the others' shield.

The knights rounded to their respective ends. John shook out his left arm and inspected his shield as if searching for something. From the stands, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the odd movement. New lances were quickly appropriated to the knights.

John and Sebastian began their second tilt, rushing headlong towards one another once again. This time, however, Sherlock caught it. Sebastian was aiming carefully above John's shield for his left shoulder. A sickening metallic echo resounded through the lists as he made contact with his target, and John overturned violently in his saddle. Sherlock erupted out of his seat without thinking; fortunately, so had half the stands.

John refrained from falling off the horse due to his sabatons catching tight in his stirrups. He pulled himself upright on the saddle, and although fully-armored Sherlock could clearly see the pain in his body language. The courser slowly walked back to the starting area, John half-slumped and holding his right gauntlet against his shoulder.

"Dishonorable aim," chided Lady Molly. She glanced up at Sherlock as if seeking agreement. He ignored her, eyes on John.

Master Michael the physician jogged out to John's horse, and the knight raised his visor to talk with him. John slowly rolled his left shoulder, wincing visibly. The arranged crowd began murmuring, wondering if he would continue the joust. Master Michael spoke with him a bit longer, shrugged, then returned to the sidelines.

After testing his shoulder with a few more rotations, John seemed indecisive. He reached down with one gauntlet to grasp the loose end of the blue scarf. He gripped it tightly, bending in his saddle slightly and thinking. Sherlock thought he could detect John's eyes flicking towards the stands. The knight's face settled into the very image of determination.

John swiftly released the scarf and snapped his visor closed, then motioned for a squire to retrieve another lance. The crowd cheered ecstatically at the prospect of seeing the match completed. At the other end of the lists, Sir Sebastian led his excited warhorse in tight circles and reached for a lance as well.

"He continues to compete to gain favor from his lady," commented Lady Clara as she eyed Lady Mary. "The strength of his ardor is unrivaled."

Sherlock very much wished to correct the first half of her statement. John already knew he possessed Sherlock's favor. No, this was clearly a demonstration of proof, meant both for the world at large and Sherlock himself. John was competitive, but not to the point of risking permanent disability. He was deliberately superseding his own nature in the quest for validation.

They lined up once more, John's left arm betraying a distinct tremor as he lifted his beige and green shield. The flag waved, and off they rode. This time, John rolled his shoulder back as he passed Sebastian, whose lance glanced off the pauldron unbroken. John's lance was aimed with greater care, however, and landed square on the dark knight's breastplate. His right arm was as strong as it had even been, and he used Sebastian's aborted glancing motion to gain extra leverage on his larger frame. Sir Sebastian flew backward, momentum of his massive form denying any possibility of catching his fall with his stirrups.

He crashed to the ground in a heavy black pile. John circled his courser, raising his shield and throwing the broken hilt of lance to the gathered commoners as a souvenir. They cheered wildly at seeing the brutish knight fall, whistling and shouting without abandon.

John approached the covered stand where the nobles sat. He pressed a gauntleted fist to his chest right above his heart, then ran a hand along the loose tail of scarf about his waist. Still helmeted, no one could see where he was looking. Sherlock received the message loud and clear: _Do you see what you inspire in me?_ Emotion radiated through John's body language, and it took effort for Sherlock to maintain his bored composure.

 "You are a fortunate woman, Mary," Lady Clara said from behind Sherlock. "I can only imagine what sorts of scandalous things he'd like to do with you!"   

\---

Two hours later, John's shoulder ached horribly. Sir Sebastian had attempted to use the injury against him, but John could not fault the other knight. Taking advantage of weaknesses was one of the keys to battle. Even simulated ones.

He was seated on the cot in his liveried tent, finally resting after the long reward ceremony where he received a golden statue of a horse. John had quickly sold it off to gold traders, and now possessed a fat purse of coins for his trouble. His armor was in pieces on the ground, as he was in far too much pain to appropriately stow it. Sir Gregory had promised to send his squire Anderson to attend to it, due to John's injury.

Master Michael had wrapped his shoulder in a tight bandage for support, but it remained painful to move. John would likely endure the effects for many days to come.

The back flap of the tent rustled, and Sherlock appeared from between parted folds.

"What are you doing here?" John hissed, glancing around. "Someone might intrude at any moment."

Seeing him, John's breathing escalated. The thrill and energetic aftermath of victory still affected him greatly, and Sherlock's presence proved immensely distracting. Knights suffering from battle-lust were known to engage in unpredictable and often ill-advised behavior. Ideas flared unbidden through John's mind; primarily, variations on remorselessly launching himself upon Sherlock and grinding him into the ground.

"I had to see you," Sherlock said, eyes widening as he clearly detected the route that John's thoughts had taken. His eyes eventually settled on his battered shoulder. "Are you well? That was a powerful strike."

John took several steadying breaths, impulses receding. He flexed his shoulder briefly and grimaced. "Free of the armor, it's recovering."

He reached behind him to pick up Sherlock's scarf. John stood and handed it to him. "Thank you for allowing me to wear it."

"Perhaps you should wear it to France and single-handedly win the throne for King Edward," Sherlock suggested teasingly.

"I'd rather bring you than the scarf," John replied softly, stepping closer.

"I'll admit, I enjoyed seeing it upon you," said Sherlock. "And your defeat of Sir Sebastian was magnificent."

"I had considerable motivation."

Sherlock's eyes wavered briefly, and then he was enveloping John in a tight embrace, mindful of his shoulder. John sighed into his grip, ears attentively listening for anyone passing outside the tent. Sherlock slipped a hand to the back of his neck, as when he wanted John to tilt his head upward. John obliged, and was met with a strong and steady kiss. He fell into it without thinking, but recovered himself after a only few moments and pulled away in worried panic.

He glanced quickly toward the entrance of the tent. It was empty.

"John," Sherlock said dismally.

John stepped back toward him. He bent his head to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I've faced countless formidable enemies all across France, but I've never felt so afraid in my life."

Sherlock raised an arm around his back.

"And anyway, I'm am ill-suited for this sort of activity," John said, indicating his sweat-stained clothes, bandaged shoulder, and ruffled hair.

"In your state of victory? There is none better."

John relaxed slightly, lifting a hand to run along the side of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock exhibited one of his rare open expressions that he saved for John, who pulled him closer for another kiss. This one was deep and long, with John channeling the emotions he had experienced during his victorious display to the seated nobles. Sherlock responded in turn, conveying his unspoken reaction to John's unwavering courage in showing his devotion to the world.

Several lively voices grew loud outside the tent, a clear indication that a group of knights was approaching. This time, Sherlock was the one to stop.

"You should go," John said with sadness.

Removing his hand from around John, Sherlock's gaze hardened with frustration.

"Soon," John told the lord as he departed. "I promise."

\---

The next day, Sherlock was seated at his sturdy oak table in his apartments when a sharp rap sounded at his door. A wild, absurd hope flared in his chest that it was John. The door creaked open, and the feeling was instantly replaced by a malignant hatred.

He identified Sir Sebastian loitering outside in the hallway, but only Lord James entered the chamber. The dark-eyed lord glanced critically around the room, raising an amused eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Do you require something, my lord?" Sherlock asked through clenched teeth, not bothering to respectfully rise from his seat.

Their history was highly antagonistic. The young James had taken great interest in Sherlock upon his arrival at Northrop, and it quickly became clear that he possessed a similarly curious and intelligent mind. James had fixated on Sherlock for those first few years. Sherlock had reluctantly involved himself in several of James' schemes, but things had swiftly changed after the death of young Carl and the resultant framing and execution of several innocent townspeople. Sherlock's arguments had fallen on deaf ears. That was when he first truly learned the power wielded by the Duke, who could wash away any blame for even the most heinous of actions by his son. Since then, James and Sherlock had engaged in a constant and subtle contest of wit.

James revealed an apple in his hand, tossing it casually into the air. "I was passing by, and could hardly resist visiting my favorite hostage. I came to determine whether you'd like to hear a story."

"If it is all the same to you, James, I would rather not."

"Do you recall the tale of King Edward the second and the knight Piers Gaveston?" mused James, ignoring Sherlock and taking a small bite out of the apple. He lounged against the heavy oak table, watching Sherlock with delighted animosity as he chewed.

Sherlock glared at him, not interested in his farces.

"It occurred not but sixty years past. A knight who fought on the continent, who came to a court of high nobility and caught the eye of someone of far higher stature. You know, I think I may have heard a story similar to this recently. No matter."

An icy chill crept up Sherlock's spine.

"The king was infatuated by Piers, of course. Edward favored him above all others, and was blinded to those who noticed their indiscretions. And there were many who noticed, Sherlock. I can't quite identify why this sounds so familiar."

Sherlock maintained a steady blank gaze at James.

"Their lust consumed them, so they say. The king allowed his duties to the realm slip away untended, falling to the temptations of a willing and enamored knight."

James took another bite of his apple.

"No one quite knows the fate of the king after his abdication. The prevailing story is that he was murdered in his imprisonment. Killed by a red-hot iron up the backside. So falls the punishment for wicked behavior."

"Are you perhaps describing yourself and Sir Sebastian, my lord?" Sherlock baited. "He is often seen at your side."

"Amusing. But we both know of what I speak."

"Your accusations are baseless and insulting," defended Sherlock.

"And you are much mistaken to think I am no less thorough than yourself," James warned cryptically.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

James walked deliberately to the stacks of trunks alongside the far wall. He flipped open the lid of one, and Sherlock's heart stopped. Reaching inside with one hand, James rummaged through its contents. Finding the object of his search, he broke into a cold smile.

Pulling the blue scarf free from its hiding spot, James dangled it in front of Sherlock. "I had long ago thoroughly probed every inch of your room and belongings, Sherlock. I recognized it instantly."

He clenched his jaw.

"Such risk for a passing distraction. Does he believe himself to love you? Surely you can satiate your amusements in a far less conspicuous way."

Sherlock's stare strengthened. James' conclusions were critically flawed, and Sherlock clung to the advantage as to a raft.

"Do not worry, Sherlock. I will not tell my father. _Yet_. By all means, continue your aberrant trysts as freely as you please." He took another bite of the apple.

It was a power play and a bald-faced threat, obvious leverage against future incidents. Sherlock forebodingly wondered what destructive plans James was concocting.

"Good day, Lord Sherlock," James said with false courtesy. He pulled open the door.

"And you, my lord," Sherlock replied forcefully as James exited to the waiting Sir Sebastian. He refrained from worrying about the large knight; James would hardly share highly valuable information with one such as him.

Alone once again, Sherlock dropped his head into his hands, elbows on the tabletop. There was no use in regretting his decision to allow John to wear the scarf. The only hope remaining was that James deigned it useful to withhold his knowledge for a long time to come.

Nonetheless, Sherlock vowed to conduct himself far more carefully. He finally felt a touch of the fear that so often paralyzed John. 


	5. In Which They Suffer

It required significant effort to mobilize the entire court of Northrop, but the stewards were long practiced in preparing everyone for the journey to visit Lord Adler's estate. The court moved often during the warmer months, taking advantage of the hospitality of the Duke's many vassals for both entertainment and sustenance. Staying at Northrop all year would prove calamitous for the food supply in the surrounding area.

The line of jostling carriages, armed escorts, nobles on their well-bred horses, and other personnel stretched far into the distance. Sherlock, on his grey palfrey, ambled slowly behind the Duke's carriage amidst several of the household knights. The Duke, ailment now believed to be the early stages of consumption, was cloistered with his attending physicians.

John travelled with many of the other knights further down the column. Sherlock, glimpsing him on occasion, was pleased to note that his shoulder had almost fully recovered from its brutal treatment at the tournament. After much consideration Sherlock had decided not to tell the knight of Lord James' revelations, despite the impending consequences. John was terrible at concealing his opinions and emotions, and his awareness of the situation would only complicate matters.

Upon their arrival at a new castle each evening, the Duke's vassals held extravagant feasts in celebration of the visit. Banners of the golden serpent were unfurled in welcome, hanging both from the spires of the castles and inside the great halls. The knights, brightly liveried in heraldic doublets, candidly enjoyed the free-flowing ale and entertained themselves by making lewd passes at the serving women. Sherlock quickly grew tired of the raucous exhibitions and trivial discussions. The hosts consistently approached him with congratulations on his match, telling stories of the Earl Adler's benevolence and his daughter's beauty in suspiciously assured tones.

Sherlock had always anticipated he would be committed to an arranged marriage eventually. Knowing that his predicament was augmenting Duke Moriarty's influence and power inspired bitter enmity within him, however, and so it was especially painful to endure the joyous atmosphere.

The evening prior to their arrival at Beaton, the assemblage of courtiers reached the stately manor house of Baron Henry Baskerville.  The manor house, although large, was smaller than many of the castles they usually resided in. Most of the men-at-arms would be sleeping outside in deference to the courtiers, who were granted the comfortable guest rooms.

Supper proved as menial as ever. Amongst the tables laden with roast suckling pork, lamprey pie, and various stewed concoctions, the nobles chattered on with increasingly pointless drivel. Baron Baskerville regaled the Duke and anyone who would listen with a spooky tale of a spectral hound that haunted his lands. Sherlock allowed himself several glances at John, who lounged on the wooden benches with his comrades.

As the night wore on, people drifted out of the great hall to retire for the evening. Those left were inebriated to the point of illogical babbling and boasting of one ridiculous feat or another. Despite his mandate to remain as a courtesy to the Baron, Sherlock was unable to stand the hubris any longer and finally took his leave.

\---

John's gait bordered on running as he travelled through the wood-paneled hallways of Baskerville Manor. He briefly nodded to various other guards as he passed, regretting that he fared so poorly at hiding his strained countenance. Heart beating unevenly in his chest, John struggled to attain a passive calm that would not draw suspicion from the others. It was quite late, but the Baron's home still bustled with those attending to the numerous noble guests.

Turning the last corner, he thankfully found the corridor deserted. John broke into a near sprint, stripping his sheathed sword and dagger from his belt, and entered the last door on the left.

Inside, he threw the weapons into a clattering pile near the wall, then stood for a moment in the oppressive silence. The door clicked solidly shut behind him. Scarcely discernible in the room's modest candlelight, Sherlock sat at a far table in the bedchamber. Shock flooded his features at John's unexpected entrance.

"I've noted to the Duke that this manor is far less secure than a castle such as Northrop," John said, eyes heated. "It would be shameful if the reason for our trip were to escape due to such an oversight."

Sherlock made no response.

John took several paces forward. "The Duke agreed with my observation, and has ordered that I be posted in your quarters tonight to monitor any attempts at fleeing."

Standing abruptly, Sherlock stared in disbelief for several moments.

"Who am I to deny the orders of my liege?" he answered.

They met in the middle of the room, locking together fiercely. John did not sense them falling until his knees unceremoniously collided with the hardwood floor. Sherlock was bolder and more insistent than usual, holding onto John and kissing him desperately. It was glorious - better than glorious, in fact. John's own pent-up frustration from the previous weeks drifted loose, reaching a liberating crescendo of relief and eagerness. In return, Sherlock seemed intent on consuming him entirely.

They stayed kneeling on the wooden planks a long while, reveling in the others' undivided attentions. When Sherlock began attempting to lower John completely onto the floor, the knight finally stopped the proceedings.

"There is a bed," John panted, arms finally freed enough to pull off his boots. "I think you'll find it to be most useful."

Sherlock, eyes wild and ignited, glanced between John and the piece of furniture as if he had spoken a foreign language. 

"Here," John said, standing and lifting Sherlock with him, whose excitement seemed to diminish with the motion. He pulled the other man to the bed and sat him down.

John began carefully unbuttoning Sherlock's doublet. Before he could remove it fully, Sherlock stopped the movements. He placed a hand on John's chest, covering his heraldic insignia.

"Pray tell, sir; why is your personal sigil a hound?"

Eyes uncharacteristically softened and subdued, Sherlock studied him. The previous surge of frenzy had disappeared entirely, and John slowly lowered his arms. Something peculiar had settled in Sherlock's features, and all John saw before him was an unsure, inexperienced young man. The absence of his normally headstrong and confident expression was significantly jarring. John knew someone in need of a slower, reassuring pace when saw them.

John smiled. "A hound is strong and fleet of foot. It pursues prey far larger and more imposing than itself," he explained, glancing up at the lord's face.

The hand on John's chest slid downward, reaching his belt. Sherlock unclasped it unnervingly quickly with only one hand. He pulled the belt free, tossing it to the floor, then reached up with both hands and began unbuttoning John's doublet.

"A hound is loyal. It will never part from he who truly earns its devotion," continued John, drawing a staggered breath.

Sherlock opened the doublet and gently removed it. With warm hands, he pulled John's linen undershirt up and over his head then carefully pushed him down onto the bed.

"Most importantly, a hound is dauntless. It will always find its target, no matter the distance or difficulty. Once it learns the scent, a hound will never relent." John pulled Sherlock down onto him and drew a long breath in his hair.

"Never?" asked clear blue eyes only inches from his own.

"Through pain of death alone will it stop," John answered.

"Is that a promise?"

John angled his head. "Yes. I promise."

The words had barely left his lips when Sherlock's mouth covered them. His previous vigor returned in part, persistent and uninhibited. John felt his leather chausses tugged down his legs. Soon enough, he was devoid of the last of his undergarments.

Sherlock methodically examined every inch of him, pressing and looking to add to his vast stores of information. John endured it patiently, letting him adjust to the presence of another living naked body. When he seemed to be finished, he gazed at John as if waiting for instruction.

"Do you wish to continue?" John asked sincerely.

Sherlock nodded, and John set to removing the last of the lord's errant clothing.

Sherlock proved as lean and lithe as his well-cut clothing implied. The sight unhinged John's long-controlled floodgate, freeing him to openly and unashamedly _want_. John leaned over him, taking his time to acclimate Sherlock to his touch. He drew closer for several fervent kisses. Hesitance fading by the second, Sherlock earnestly began running his hands wherever he pleased. John lost himself in the warm tastes and sensations of his mouth, finally allowing himself to sink mindlessly into the activity. When a hand passed over his stiffening cock, however, he released a stuttered groan into Sherlock's mouth. He felt Sherlock smile in the midst of their kiss and return his hand. 

The close contact, finally feeling Sherlock beneath him, touching him. John drew a shaky breath, reminding himself that Sherlock was new to this and needed him to be aware and attentive. Sherlock's hand tightened around his erection, feeling and testing it. The pressure destroyed any lingering thoughts.

Before John could stop himself, he was thrusting forcefully into Sherlock's hand. Blind need overtook him, an overwhelming demand to infiltrate the object of his desire. He dipped his head and grasped Sherlock firmly with both arms, holding him as a steady reference point, and rutted with increasing ferocity. Sherlock never relaxed his grip, providing a tight tunnel of friction for his cock. It didn't take long; John ejaculated in a shuddering burst, releasing into Sherlock's hand. An arm wrapped around him as he shook with the force of it.

Still shivering from the climax, John raised his head and found Sherlock's thoroughly surprised eyes staring back. John quickly rolled off, catching his breath and settling the haze from his mind. Sherlock lifted his soiled hand, inspecting the semen. He rubbed it curiously between his fingers.

"Sorry," John said, slightly embarrassed at his loss of self control. "I've endured the wait as long as you."

"That was... unexpectedly violent," Sherlock noted, wiping his hand on the bedclothes.

"Yes, well," John said. "Feel free to tell me what you'd like."

Sherlock watched him blankly, not saying anything.

"Might I try?" John suggested quietly, deciding to take the initiative. The lord nodded cautiously.

He turned Sherlock on his side and pressed up against his back, holding on with one arm wrapped under and around his midsection. With his free hand, John began caressing his chest affectionately, attempting to relax him.

Slowly, he moved his hand downward. When he reached the navel, Sherlock suddenly stopped his hand.

"Do you ever masturbate?" John asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

"No," Sherlock said, voice rough.

"Let me, Sherlock. I won't harm you."

The hand gradually released from John's wrist.

He slowly lowered his hand,  passing the coarse hair. He softly wrapped his hand around Sherlock's half-hard cock, feeling it firm even more. At the touch, Sherlock's body tensed. His cock was dry and warm, and John took a moment to feel the weight and solidness, allowing Sherlock to adjust to the sensation.

Sherlock's breathing became more rapid. John began with long solid strokes. Sherlock shifted in his grasp, and John pulled him tighter to his chest.

The stroking continued with alternating pressures and motions. He took a brief respite by cupping Sherlock's testicles, tugging and massaging them gently. Sherlock drew a sharp intake of breath, and John felt them constrict even further. He returned to the shaft, sliding his hand with firm pressure. Sherlock's cock was beginning to drip steadily, allowing John's hand to slide more quickly. He rubbed the moistened head with the his palm, venturing with the same tricks he enjoyed himself.

Sherlock's free arm swung back, gripping onto John's hip. The tip of his cock was leaking heavily now, veins bulging along the shaft with tightly-contained pressure. Sherlock breathed in heavy gasps.

"John," he nearly shouted, breathless.

John sped his hand, tipping him over the edge. Sherlock choked back a loud groan, muscles contracting against John. His cock forcefully discharged into John's hand, spilling its contents in vigorous surges. Body writhing uncontrollably, Sherlock held onto John as he rode through his orgasm.

John released him, letting Sherlock settle flat on his back. His chest heaved with several shuddering breaths, then turned his head to gaze at John with darkened eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock reached out and pulled John to him, turning on his side to better envelop him. John allowed Sherlock to hold on, detecting a faint quaking remaining in his body.

They lay silently in a close embrace for a time. Sherlock raised a hand to bury into his hair, and John traced swirling lines along his rib cage. Lying this close was beyond perfect, and John felt he could easily stay there for the rest of eternity. Sherlock's breathing had slowed enough to provide a constant and comforting rhythm.

"I believe I have discovered who you are, now, underneath it all," John said.

"Who?"

"You are mine. Regardless of where you go or whom you marry," he answered.

Sherlock gripped him tighter, releasing a long breath.

Gradually, John noticed his eyelids felt increasingly heavy. He sighed, then began extricating himself from Sherlock's limbs. The lord refused to loosen his arms.  

"You're leaving?" Sherlock asked, head springing up.

"I'm tired, and we have a long day of riding tomorrow. If I remain here I will fall asleep," he explained.

"No one will find us. I always wake prior to the servants' arrival in the morning."

John placed a loving hand in his hair. "I'm not willing to risk you."

Reluctantly, Sherlock released him. John slid out of the bed and rummaged for his clothing. Once suitably dressed, he laid down on the padded wooden bench against the far wall.

By the glint of moonlight coming from the window, John could see Sherlock watching him from where he lay on the bed. After a time, John was forced to turn his head to have any hope of attaining sleep.

\---

Early the next morning, the entire convoy disembarked with parting farewells from Baron Baskerville. The day of riding passed quickly, as Sherlock lost himself deep in thought about the previous night.

Eager as he had been to acquire free reign of John, Sherlock had quickly realized that he had little knowledge of what to do once in possession of the knight. John proved patient, however, and had both consciously and unconsciously passed along a great many lessons. Information in hand, Sherlock elected to be overly prepared for the next time. That is, if there _was_ a next time. The thought dampened his mood severely.

As the sun began to set over the hilly landscape, the Duke's party arrived at their final destination. Beaton was an old, craggy castle steeped on an crumbling hillock adjacent to a darkening forest, which appeared far larger and denser than Duke Moriarty's own wood. Only half the size of the Duke's castle, Beaton had obviously been constructed centuries before Northrop. The Adler family was old and proud, and they spared no expense in their show of power before the Duke's court.

Sherlock's introduction to his future wife occurred that very evening. With rigid etiquette and an audience of several high nobles, Lady Irene Adler was presented to both Sherlock and the Duke. Irene, a young woman of eighteen, was tall and dark-haired with a gaze that disclosed great intelligence and suggested a penchant for anti-authoritarian leanings. She smiled politely and remained quiet throughout, curtsying mechanically at the prescribed moments, but Sherlock detected the same underlying impatience with pointless protocol that he himself experienced.

The couple was then announced in the great hall in front of the assembled courts of Earl Adler and Duke Moriarty. After much fanfare and speech-making, consisting mainly of stale compliments and overly-conspicuous subservience, Sherlock and Irene were seated and supper commenced. A great many of the eyes in the hall were fixed upon them at any given point. No doubt Duke Moriarty's men-at-arms were attempting to ascertain whether they were getting along, or if Lady Irene seemed likely to run screaming from the table.

"They all watch you with great interest," Irene noted once everyone's attention had abated enough for private conversation.

"They do little else. This entire evening is full of potential amusement for them," Sherlock replied distantly. Despite himself, he could not help but admire Irene's rational nature.

Irene's eyes studied the tables with practiced discernment. She watched the rambunctious knights as they received another round of strong ale, several breaking into poorly tuned song.

"Your Duke has brought quite the complement of knights," she observed.

"Duke Moriarty prides himself in excessive displays of influence," Sherlock explained. "This celebration is happening for his sake rather than my own, I assure you."

"My father draws the same pleasure from this evening's events. Although he shall exhibit far more joy at the wedding ceremony this summer."

Sherlock produced an annoyed noise.

"Our union occurs against your wishes," Irene stated, visibly lacking in distaste at the notion.

"I great many things occur against my wishes."

Irene gave him an evaluative glance, and Sherlock could almost see the calculations whirling in her mind.

"Have you visited London?" she asked innocently.

"I do not travel from the Duke's holdings without his permission."

"Ah, yes, you remain a hostage. That will change upon our wedding."

"A hostage to the Duke turned hostage to you and your father. How is that different?"

"I suppose it's not."

Supper dragged along slowly. Those in the seats eventually realized Lady Irene was not leaving anytime soon, and so most of the eyes lowered to an acceptable height. Sherlock was not shy about displaying his irritation at the entire situation. Irene took up conversation with several of her ladies, seated nearby, for the remainder of the evening.

Eventually, they were allowed to depart. Irene led Sherlock from the great hall, passing through several guarded doorways.

"My lady, may I escort you to your rooms?" asked one of the Earl's knights who passed them as he patrolled down the main hallway.

"Not necessary," Irene told the knight. "Lord Sherlock can accompany me."

"As you wish, my lady," the knight answered, bowing and backing away.

Irene took Sherlock by the arm and led him down the corridor.

The halls of Beaton were less extravagant than Northrop. Great tapestries hung between the torches on the walls. Many were quite old, reinforcing the illustrious history of the family and castle. Irene identified them all by name and date of creation; several were from the early 13th century. Eventually, the exquisite wall decor ended as they approached the castle's living quarters.

"How long has it been?" Irene asked ambiguously as they walked.

"What?"

"How long have you been in love with him?" Irene clarified. She stopped them in their tracks.

Sherlock glanced quickly down the corridor, searching for anyone who might be listening.

Irene sighed impassively, then pulled open a nearby door. Inside was a small office with wooden desk and chair, moonlight drifting in from the window. She eyed him, waiting for a response.

He refused to acknowledge her question, staring right back.

"It's obvious to anyone who can properly observe," Irene said.

"We have known one another but a few hours," Sherlock answered dangerously. "Do not presume to know everything about me."

"Oh, you've proven far more difficult to read. That fair-haired knight, however, was as obvious as anyone I've encountered. I've seen looks such as his in my time."

"And to what look might you be referring?" Sherlock replied.

"Heartbreak," Irene supplied. "And not simply heartbreak from an impersonal distance; after we were announced and seated, it was as if his entire world were shattering before his eyes. You weren't watching him closely, were you?"

Sherlock shifted slightly, looking away to the wall. "It's too dangerous to do so."

"What's his name?"

"John," he said.

Her eyes hardened. "Well, my lord, I am certainly sorry-"

"I do not require your pity," Sherlock interrupted loudly, "nor will I oblige your compassion, charity, or empathy."

Irene raised an eyebrow, not averted in the least. "As I was saying, I am sorry for your circumstance, and I suffer from similar complaints. I have had little interest in men these last years, beyond their use for achieving my own ends. However," she said as her eyes flicked suggestively up and down his person, "there is always room for changes of personal preference. Don't you think?"

\---

Earl Adler, as expected of a gracious host, invited the various lords of Duke Moriarty's court to partake in a hunt in the nearby forest the next day. The hunting party assembled in the rolling morning fog of the early dawn hours. As they took their breakfast, the Earl's expert huntsman arrived and informed all that he had identified a large and magnificent hart for the day's pursuit. The honor of striking the fatal blow to their prey was granted to Lord James, as the Duke was too unwell to attend.

Many of the knights were attending the hunt as both escorts and support personnel for the high lords. As the lords debated and argued how to best conduct the hunt, John and the other knights hovered near the horses.

"It is impossible, and yet it is the only explanation that follows reason," Tobias declared. "If Lady Clara were interested in men, surely she could not resist me."

"Tobias, you have been in crisis over this idea since it was first mentioned to you by Lord Holmes," said Gregory. "Perhaps you should accept that she simply does not like you rather than manufacture such extreme excuses."

"I would not discard the theory that Lady Clara read one excerpt of his terrible prose and became disenchanted with the entirety of the male species," suggested Sebastian with a deprecating smirk.

"Rightly so, if she knew half the inane enterprises I've seen you lot involve yourselves in," laughed Gregory. "For example, Sir William's imaginary quest for the Duchess."

"Imaginary to those unwilling to accurately see the signs," said William. "I have succeeded in acquiring an affirmation of the Duchess' affections. There is no doubt any longer."

"And what form did this affirmation take?" asked John.

"I discovered a single white rose, clipped from her private garden, waiting for me on the ground behind the armory."

"A rose is nothing. Likely it was dropped by some passing traveler," said Tobias. "Why does she not deliver her messages in a more common way, if her ardor is true?"

"It is far too dangerous for us to meet in person, and creating a written document would leave evidence that could be discovered. I assure you, she both accepts and returns my devotion," persuaded William.

Gregory shook his head. "Believe what you may, Sir William, but this clearly falls outside the boundaries of our arrangement. My destrier will remain safely in my custody unless you can provide unequivocal evidence in the next month."

"That is unlikely to happen for the reasons I have described," protested William.

"Do you truly believe in these ridiculous signs, William?" asked Tobias. "Tell us the truth; how did you come to receive the  sleeve you wore at the tournament?"

William frowned embarrassedly. "It belonged to the Duchess, if that is your inquiry."

"But it was not given willingly?" questioned John.

"Such an overt exchange would prove dangerous. It came from the tailor, who created several samples for a dress he has been commissioned to construct for her."

"So, it was never worn by her," said Gregory bluntly, raising an eyebrow.

"That's one mystery solved," said Tobias, looking expectantly at John. "What of that ladies' scarf?"

John remained steadfastly silent, meeting Tobias' questioning gaze until the other man finally succumbed and gave up.

"Yes, right, of course," Tobias sighed lamely. "You are not answering, as usual."

A loud whistle sounded, indicating to all that the hunt would begin soon. It was decided that the Earl's assorted hunting hounds would be split into strategic relay points throughout the woods in preparation for the hart being flushed from its hiding spot in the dense brush.

For some unknown reason, Lord James requested John and Gregory to join his party of nobles, in addition to his personal bodyguard Sebastian. John knew that Sherlock disliked James with great intensity, and over the past months he had regularly mulled over the source of their conflict. Sherlock had never willingly answered any questions regarding James. John found it curious that James would ask for him personally, but the Duke's son proved courteous, if distant.

"Do you think we will spy the spectral hound on our hunt?" asked one of the younger noblemen as their group rode to their prescribed location along the game trail.

"The only hounds in these woods are those in service of the Earl," Gregory said, glancing back at the pack of five dogs they were leading. "As well as Sir John, of course."

"If I am a hound, then you are a fox, Sir Gregory," replied John. "Let us not forget who is the hunter and the hunted in that scenario."

"Both are the hunted, for a serpent always lies in wait to poison the victor in the moment of his triumph," laughed Sebastian.

Lord James lent him an ominous half-smile. "You would spoil the outcome with your warning, Sir Sebastian. Is it not better that the prey believe they have won until the fangs inescapably close in around them?"

"A dire conclusion," said Gregory.

"Not so dire if the serpent is regularly appeased," said James. "Is that not the way of high nobility, even in Normandy?"

"It is, my lord," replied Gregory. "Although politics there are far more unstable, and appeasement will hardly guarantee safety in such a landscape. It is important to know both your friends and your enemies intimately, lest one become the other.”

"Sir Sebastian has described as much. Tell me, have either of you seen friend turn on friend?"

"More often than we please," said John. "We have all fought alongside men whom, within a month or less, we faced again on the battlefield as foes."

"You are not disheartened by this?"

John thought for a moment. "I think, my lord, it is safe to say we have grown accustomed to disappointment and frayed relationships with our comrades. Loyalty to our liege lords always stands foremost in our actions."

James nodded at this, thinking it over. Really, John couldn't understand why Sherlock disliked him so. The Duke's son was cold and harsh on occasion, but largely courteous and understandably curious otherwise.

They eventually reached the relay point and the hound master assembled the dogs for easy release. Lord James requested that John and Gregory find Earl Adler's party at the beginning of the relay and inform them that all was ready at their checkpoint.

Gregory glanced at him as they rode back through the woods. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"Your questions have not ceased since the tournament," said John, exasperated. "I informed you that I am not inclined to speak on the topic, if you will recall."

"I had thought here, beyond the hearing of others, you might be convinced to share in your intrigues," Gregory said. "Do you not consider me a friend, John?"

"I do, Sir Gregory, although in this matter I am choosing to remain silent," he replied.

Gregory seemed pensive at that, but concerned as well. "Your reticence leads me to two possible conclusions."

John sighed. "You will hardly trick me into revealing something, Gregory."

His protestations were ignored. "The first is that you are deceiving us all in the way of Sir William and his stories of the Duchess. I do not believe this option, as you have ever proven both honest and honorable. The second is you are involved with a woman of high standing whom, if your affections were known, would cause grave consequences. Yet you do not boast of attaining such a person as you have in past pursuits."

John stared ahead. "You have dismissed both theories, it would seem."

"Indeed, a fact which suggests there is a third option. There is something intrinsically different about the woman you are seeing. What that may be, I cannot say. I suspect it also means you are susceptible to ill-advised courses of action."

"Ill-advised?"

Gregory gave an expression of warning. "I need not remind you that we have sworn an oath to Duke Moriarty, John. We are to obey his wishes in all things."

"I would die before reneging my oaths," John retorted.

"Your honor is not in question. Love inspires strange and curious reactions in men, however, and I would not see you fall victim. You may come to consider your personal emotions to be of greater value than the chivalry of your actions."

"You fear I might elope with some high lady?"

"I fear that you are affected beyond reason."

"Do you not love Lady Molly in that way?"

"I love her in the only way a knight is able," clarified Gregory, eyes lowered. "From our first day at Northrop I have known that there lies no future with her, and a union would prove impossible. My father would likely disinherit me for marrying without his consent. I adore Lady Molly greatly, but I never allowed myself to fall into a foolish fiction. There can be no pleasant ending for us."

"I have more faith than you, I think," said John. "I do not abandon hope so easily."

\---

Soon after returning from Earl Adler's estate in Beaton, Duke Moriarty received word that one of his most prominent vassals was refusing to pay a heavy fine for under-reporting his annual earnings. The household garrison was assembled immediately and hundreds more knights were summoned from surrounding lords. The knights departed for what was suspected would be a drawn-out siege of the offender's castle.

Northrop seemed almost ghostly in its lack of people. A small fortifying group was left for defense, but the clanging sounds of swords in the practice yard or knights in the stables were notably absent. The paved walks between the various outbuildings were empty of loitering men-at-arms. Lone figures manned the battlements rather than groupings of bored guardsmen. The women took more prominent walks with fewer men too ogle them licentiously. During supper, the tables were sparsely filled.

Empty periods such as this had occurred regularly through the years, but Sherlock felt conspicuously alone for the first time in as long as he could remember. John, of course, had left with the other knights. The first day or two had been no trouble at all; Sherlock was used to waiting to see John. Once four days had passed, there was a nagging incompleteness in the back of his mind. It seemed that John had created a permanent gap within Sherlock, and when absent the void was almost too painful think about.  

In the second week, reading books and writing failed to provide any distraction whatsoever. Sherlock rifled through every book and manuscript he owned, and even raided all accessible collections in the castle. When nothing caught his interest for more than an hour or so, he gave up and returned to his rooms. He paced his chambers agitatedly, throwing objects when the mood took him and composing a list of insults for the next chamberlain who dared bother him.

In the fourth week, he battled the urge to become physically violent out of frustration. He would rage at those who approached him, viciously deducing their private habits and deepest embarrassments. Just as suddenly, he would swing into lethargic depressive moods that caused him to barely move during the day. The nights were even worse, long tortuous hours spent drifting through memories. Thinking about his night with John only left him hard and aching and forced to attend to his needs by himself. He tried to pretend they were John's hands on him, but each successful resolution only left him yearning for his knight all the more desperately.

In the seventh week, Molly discovered him staring blankly into space on top of the barbican. He sat folded forlornly on the stone walkway, back against the crenellations. The day was bright and cloudless, but the warmth of the sun passed through him unnoticed. Molly stood uncertainly on the battlement, drawing the courage to interrupt his introspection.

"It's been difficult without Sir Gregory here," Molly noted finally.

"I don't want to hear about Sir Gregory," Sherlock spat.

"It would be harder, though, if I knew Sir Gregory better. Personally."

Sherlock clenched shut his eyes, willing Molly to leave him alone. Instead, she drew closer, one hand moving slightly as if she wished to touch his shoulder.

"Lady Mary favors Sir John. She admitted as much to me a few days ago," Molly stated in a hushed tone.

"They aren't involved with one another," Sherlock told her dismissively.

"She says she is pained at his absence."

"What does she know of missing him?" he growled, looking up at the noblewoman. He cared little that his words were blatantly confirming Molly's unspoken assumption.

Molly studied him, a deep sadness touching her eyes. "You know you can't keep him, Sherlock."

"I know. I _know_ ," he said dejectedly, lowering his head. "But it does not prevent my wishing."

Two agonizing months after they departed, the knights finally returned having successfully cowed the errant vassal. Upon returning to the privacy of the woods with John, Sherlock silently held onto him for almost two solid hours. 


	6. In Which They Grieve

One week before the wedding, the Adler delegation arrived at Northrop. Almost all the occupants of Beaton descended upon the castle, conspicuously flaunting their wealth and position as if they held a candle to the Duke's own power. Lady Irene and her ladies in waiting were hardly seen, but her father Earl Adler spent his time engaging in prominent inspections around the castle grounds. Vassals and friends of the Adler and Moriarty families soon swept in from all the surrounding shires, and before long Northrop overflowed with genteel guests.

The Duke's consumption had taken a turn for the worse over the last two months, and he was unable to greet his visitors. His physicians attended him day and night, claiming that he would be fit to attend the ceremony. Master Michael was significantly less optimistic, and quiet preparations were secretly initiated to handle his estate for when the inevitable came to pass in an estimated six months' time. In the Duke's absence, Lord James took over many of the duties in attending to the newly-arrived guests and hosting them at supper each night.

John watched their arrival with grave discontentment. The last two months had been extraordinarily difficult, and as each day passed his feeling of distress only strengthened. Sherlock's odd overly-tactile reaction to John after his return was evidence that he felt the same. But John, too, had suffered in their separation. Over those long weeks, he had little choice but to silently endure within the close-quarter environment of the siege camp.

He knew he would not have an opportunity to see Sherlock once more, alone, before the wedding. There were too many details to coordinate, and the groom was required for various purposes at all hours of the day. There existed a very real chance that Sherlock would simply slip through his fingers after the wedding ceremony, with no parting words between them. John attempted to convince himself that it was of little consequence, but the lies rang decisively false even before they were fully formed in his head.

\---

It was three days until the wedding. Sherlock spent as much time hiding from the guests as possible, but Northrop was brimming with people beyond anything he had ever seen. Every corridor and room revealed someone else, stowed improbably against corners or seated on every conceivable piece of furniture. He received countless congratulations on the impending nuptials at every turn. It was insufferable.  

This evening, he had finally discovered a dusty storeroom devoid of human life. He brought a heavy treatise on medicinal plants and folded into a torch-lit corner for a peaceful stretch of reading.

After only a few minutes, a knock sounded at the wooden door and Sherlock cursed his luck. It creaked open, revealing an unknown noblewoman in a dark blue dress. Sherlock sat up, not recognizing her.

"Lord Holmes?" she asked. "Are you available?"

"Not at this time, no," he answered brusquely.

She entered the room, and was followed by three other ladies. They approached where he sat, curiosity on their faces.

"The Lady Irene has requested we bring you to her," the woman in blue said.

Protocol and rules. Sherlock wished he could be rid of them. Reluctantly, he stood, dusting himself off. He left his book, hoping to resolve Irene's summons and return shortly.

The ladies simpered and giggled as they led him through the halls, whispering to one another and glancing back at him. Sherlock frowned each time they looked back, hoping to deter their annoying behavior.

He recognized the turns that they took, but it unquestionably was not toward the women's quarters. Lady Irene had likely taken residence in a common sitting room for the evening, knowing that allowing random men to wander the women's areas was a disreputable practice.

They stopped suddenly, and Sherlock found himself staring at the door to his own apartments.

"She desires to meet me in my own quarters?" he asked disbelievingly. Irene disliked following proper conduct, he knew, but a private rendezvous in his chambers only days before their wedding was highly suspicious.

The women answered by merely smiling mischievously, so he ignored them and pushed the door open.

Inside, sure enough, Lady Irene stood in his sitting room wearing a rough-cut riding cloak with a heavy hood. She pulled it back upon seeing Sherlock. Her dark hair was immaculately styled, dress perfectly folded and adhering snugly to her trim form. Her fellow ladies followed him through the door, watching.

"Lord Sherlock," Irene said, dropping the cloak completely to the floor in one sultry movement. "I have come to deliver a gift in celebration of our impending wedding."

Sherlock eyed her, taken aback at her presumption.

"If you would please," she said, indicating the door to his bedchamber.

"This is hardly necessary, my lady. I am perfectly willing to... properly accept your gift in three days' time."

"Unfortunately, I am not willing to wait," Irene answered. "I have endeavored long to arrange the logistics of this encounter. You will enter the chamber, or my ladies will forcibly put you there." 

Sherlock glanced at the other ladies, who gave him stern expressions. Physically harming a noblewoman was equally as heinous as an illicit coupling, and far more difficult to conceal. Sherlock stepped past Irene, giving her a displeased look, and reluctantly entered his bedchamber.

The women had obviously been prowling his apartments for some time, as the fireplace was already well-stoked and burning comfortably. Lady Irene followed him into the room. Fortunately, the other ladies remained outside. Sherlock turned to face Irene, impatient for an opportunity to end this farce. She looked at him expectantly, making no movements. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize they were not alone in the chamber.

The firelight cast obscuring shadows across most of the objects in the room, and Sherlock's eyes finally adjusted enough to notice that John was standing uncertainly next to the fireplace. The fire backlit him, reflecting golden-orange hues off his hair. John was simply dressed in his leather riding trousers and a linen shirt.

Sherlock stared at him for several moments, then glanced back at Irene with a questioning expression.

"If you remain adamant that you do not wish to accept your gift, I suppose I might be willing to take him back," she said, smirking mysteriously. 

"How..." Sherlock started. He set his jaw. "This will never work."

"On the contrary, it's quite simple. All chamberlains, stewards, and attendants have been informed that you wish to spend the evening in religious contemplation, so that you might prepare yourself to be a Godly husband. I have acquired the key to your room through the efforts of one of my ladies so that you might lock it against unsuspecting intruders. All known remaining copies of the key have been, unfortunately, carelessly misplaced behind various pieces of furniture in the castle. None shall think to bother you until at least mid-day tomorrow. I have delivered my marshal's riding cloak for concealment during your guest's departure."

Sherlock absorbed the information. He glanced at John, who smiled.

"I know you would prefer that our marriage not occur, but there is little to be done about it," Irene conceded. "This is all I can give you, my lord."

"Lady Irene, you know that I will never love you. Despite that, I must admit I respect you greatly. And that I thank you."

"As well you should," Irene said, pulling a key from her belt and handing it to Sherlock. She glanced at John before she departed. "Take care of him, sir. Tonight, he is yours."

John blushed faintly, barely discernible in the low light. "That I shall, my lady. And I thank you, as well."

The door shut, and they were alone.

Sherlock slowly approached the knight, disbelief fading into an uncontrollable sense of relief. He wrapped his arms about John in a tight embrace as John raised his arms to mirror the movement. Sherlock pressed into him, scarcely believing the benevolent strokes of fortune that allowed him this one, final night with John.

"What is it that you want, Sherlock?" John asked after several minutes, pulling back slightly.

"To be near you. To lay together without fear."

John nodded, and then broke the embrace to approach the bed.

Sherlock excused himself, exiting into the sitting room. He nearly ran to the door, taking multiple attempts to successfully wedge the iron key into the lock. He glanced down at his hands, and realized they were overtly shaking in anticipation. Suddenly light-headed, he leaned against the door and inhaled a series of fortifying breaths. He had thought about John so often during those last two months. It was surreal to know that time was on his side. At least for tonight.

When he reentered the bedchamber, John raised his head from where he reclined on the mattress. Seeing him lying in wait on Sherlock's bed conjured a taut warmth in his abdomen. Sherlock quickly locked the bedchamber door and dropped the key on a nearby table. He approached the bed, watching as John’s calm eyes tracked his route, and slid onto the bed next to him.

"I don’t understand how it is possible you are here," Sherlock confessed as John wrapped his arms around him. Their soft and secluded environment, coupled with John’s steady presence, filled him with a sense of safety hardly experienced during his traumatic years in the castle.

"It was rather ingenious on Irene's part,” John explained, close enough for Sherlock to feel the warmth of his words. “She informed the marshal she required a guard for the evening to escort one of her ladies. I'm unsure how she manipulated him into thinking offering me was his own idea."

"She possesses keen intelligence and guile."

“Not unlike someone else I know,” John answered mildly.

Searching John’s features, his mind was struck with a thousand desperate ways to preserve and keep his knight for all time. Impossible ideas that would result in death and dishonor for themselves and, likely, many others who did not deserve such an end. Somehow, the fates of any who might help them were insignificant when weighed against the lure of freedom with John.

"Escape with me, John,” Sherlock found himself saying. “We can journey to France, or Scotland, or any place you please. I care not where if you are with me."

John lent a stern expression. "Don't ask me to become an oath-breaker. I will not forsake what I have sworn."

Familiar disappointment welled. "And what of the promises you swore to me? To never relent, to always persevere despite the difficulties?"

"I am not abandoning you, Sherlock,” reassured John, lifting a hand to touch the side of his face. “My promises were not about forsaking everything I am for a misguided attempt to abscond with you. What I meant is that I am willing to suffer the hardships, the uncertainty. We may never find a safe haven, but I intend to seek out whatever small pieces of your life which I am allowed. Do you see?"

"Even if we can never again be together in this way?"

"I once told you that the ideals of knightly romance do not hold physical acts of love to be the highest of possible pursuits,” John said. “I believe I am finally growing to understand why."

Sherlock breached the gap between them, mouth meeting mouth. John rose on his elbow as his other hand disappeared into dark curls. After a moment, he pulled back.

John, eyes soft and dark, gazed at him. "Although, I certainly won't decline any opportunities."

A sort of tussle followed as John attempted to rearrange himself into a preferred position. Sherlock resisted the movement, trying to gain the upper hand. The knight's physical strength and training won out, resulting in a triumphant straddle and a careful hand at Sherlock's jaw.

"John," Sherlock said, low where he lay. "Despite all evidence to the contrary, it is difficult to believe you are willing to endure the adversity I present."

 He leaned over Sherlock. "It is difficult to believe that I was fortunate enough to find you," John whispered close to his ear. “There are many who have endured more for far, far less.”

Sherlock turned his head find his mouth again, and they sank in together for another round. John’s breathing escalated, pelvis lightly grinding against him. The outcome of John’s excitement from their previous encounter was still fresh in Sherlock’s memory, and he had long since decided to prevent a similar uncontrolled incident from occurring. Compounding that, he was of the high nobility, and following the lead of others was not a practice he often enjoyed. Sherlock wrapped a leg around the knight and quickly flipped them both over in one smooth motion. John grunted in surprise as he found himself on his back.

"Fast learner," John breathed, as Sherlock continued the slow friction between them.

His knight's clothes proved an annoying barrier, so Sherlock slid his hands beneath John's undershirt. It pulled off easily, and he moved to the belt as John's hands began unbuttoning his own doublet.

Quick work was made of most of their clothing. Sherlock placed his hands over John's compact musculature as the knight worked at the last of his garb. He passed his fingers over the weakened left shoulder, scar from the crossbow bolt prominently raised.

"I'd like to personally find and thank the marksman who shot you," Sherlock said, rolling aside.

"Likely some French peasant who received a single month's training and chanced a stint of lucky aim."

John wrapped his arms around him, hands caressing the length of his back. Purposefully keeping his hands away from John's more sensitive areas, Sherlock echoed the movements. He wished to draw things out for John this time.

"Do you think you'll grow to enjoy being wedded to her?" John inquired in a subdued voice.

Sherlock scoffed. "Doubtful."

"I can't bear to know she will be the first you claim," John said quietly, shutting his eyes and letting out a breath. "I would rather it be me."

There was a brief pause as he read John’s expression.

"You wish me to sodomize you?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

John looked at him, deadly serious. "If God meant my feelings to be sinful, then why did he create such depth within me?"

Sherlock pulled him closer, sighing. "All right."

A few moments passed, neither of them moving.

"If you are unsure how to proceed, I might-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I am a rapid study when required. After our last encounter I searched both my library and that of Master Michael. It is fortunate he enjoys collecting rare classical Greek and Roman texts, including unpublished and controversial manuscripts. I believe I have more knowledge of this than you."

"You've prepared for this?"

"If there was ever the slightest chance you might consent, I deemed it necessary to be ready." Sherlock reached down and rummaged in a pile at the side of his bed. He produced a bottle with a wax stopper. "Fortunately, I am already sufficiently versed in herb lore. The combined extracts of several rare woodland plants will make the proceedings far more comfortable for you."

"God almighty," John replied, stunned.

"I've had much to consider during your absence."

"So it would seem."

"Then you're willing?"

John glanced cautiously at Sherlock. "I trust you," he answered.

He could observe John was nervous at the prospect, so Sherlock distracted him with several deep kisses. As he worked at John's mouth, his mind flooded with the daydreams and frustrated evenings of the past few months. He knew early on that he wished to take John if presented with the opportunity, and here he sat on the precipice of attaining that goal. As they kissed, Sherlock hardened surprisingly quickly simply from the images flashing through his head, anticipating the act.

Before long, John was relaxed and sprawled under him, dazedly pulling kisses from Sherlock's mouth. The knight's cock had noticeably swelled with increasing arousal, and Sherlock knew he was as ready as he'd ever prove.

"It'll be easier on your stomach," Sherlock suggested in a low voice. John blinked a few times, then obediently rolled over and clutched onto the nearby feather pillow.

Sherlock leaned forward, using the weight of his body as a calming pressure while he broke the seal on the bottled salve. John turned his head as if trying to identify what Sherlock was doing. He removed a smear of the thick salve and spread it amongst his fingers.

John sucked in a sharp breath and tensed at the first intrusion of Sherlock's slicked finger, body becoming rigid.

"Relax, John," he hushed softly.

The knight calmed marginally, and Sherlock eased his finger completely inside his body. A second finger followed, and John accepted it with little resistance. Sherlock flexed them slightly, earning a surprised jolt from John.

After sufficient preparation, he removed his fingers. Sherlock pulled back and reached for the bottle once more to remove a larger portion of the substance. He leaned closer, one hand reassuringly on John's back, the other coating his erection.

"Are you well?" he asked John.

"Yes," came the stilted answer.

The salve proved a godsend as he slid his cock carefully inside John. The knight ducked his head in the feather pillow, drawing steadying breaths as the pressure filled him. Sherlock watched the muscles in his back tighten and flex as he pushed inward. John yielded magnificently to his presence. Fully buried, Sherlock had never felt anything as wonderful as this complete claiming of John.

He reached around to envelop John's firming cock with one hand, and John expelled a gloriously ragged exhalation at the contact. John attempted to move a hand down to where Sherlock held him, but Sherlock wrapped his other arm around John's chest and forced him flatter onto the mattress, arms splayed.

John was satisfyingly warm and tight, and his body began to subtly tremor beneath Sherlock. The desire to rut violently inside him clouded Sherlock's mind. He controlled the instinct and started slowly, delivering languid affectionate thrusts that produced a muffled grunt from John upon each impact. Sherlock acclimated himself to inhabiting John, noting the mechanics of each particularly effective stroke. The sensations were interrupted as John pushed back, attempting to help regulate the movements.

Not appreciating the opposing attempt at control, Sherlock shifted to gain leverage over him. His thrusts deepened, sinking hungrily inside John's body with possessive strength. Strained sounds escaped from John, syllables of Sherlock's name and other distorted words. No longer equipped to challenge, he quivered in unsteady surrender. The slick, hot tightness was beyond magnificent, and Sherlock was content to thrust into him at length. He tested various pressures and slants, cataloging the noises they drew from John. The knight's arms shakily gripped the pillow, all notions of taking control forgotten.

Sherlock pressed against him more closely, finally perfecting his angle. John let out a half-formed shout, choked and garbled near the end, and Sherlock knew he had found the knight's sensitive spot. John's body contracted, back arching and hands grabbing at the bedclothes. His hips shuddered forward several times with involuntarily spasms, driving his stiff cock into Sherlock's hand and the bed.

Breathing in heavy uneven gasps, John moved his quaking arms to more effectively stabilize himself. Sherlock paused only a moment to confirm the condition of his knight before initiating a long series of deep thrusts into the same location.

John's ravaged cries were strangled and prolonged underneath him as Sherlock relentlessly refused to break his pace. They moved in unison, John utterly overcome and submitting to the passionate impalement. John's cock grew harder in his hand, throbbing with trapped energy. Sherlock reveled in the sensations, as well as the staggering knowledge that he could overwhelm John so completely. John's hands shook in their white-knuckle grip on the sheets, and Sherlock could sense his racing heartbeat and shallow breathing.

Sherlock felt a heavy pressure building in his own lower abdomen. He began stroking John's cock in the way he remembered from their last encounter, squeezing and rubbing in an identical manner. John began folding in on himself, unable to cope with the sensory overload. Finally reaching his breaking point, John ejaculated violently into Sherlock's hand while releasing something akin to a bestial roar. The action created a cascading effect, as John's orgasm tensed his abdominal muscles. John's tightening around his cock proved too much, and Sherlock climaxed as well. He pulsated powerfully within John, riding through the waves of pleasure with his arms wrapped closely around the limp knight. When it ended, Sherlock collapsed fully on top of him.

They lay there for a time, drawing fatigued breaths together. Sherlock wished to stay like this always; John slackened and spent beneath him.

He finally pulled out, and then carefully rolled John onto his side. The knight was the very image of heavily-dazed astonishment as Sherlock lay down facing him.

"You'll need to lend me that manuscript," John said weakly with wide eyes.

Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace. John proved compliant, still affected by their exertions.

"I love you," John confided quietly. "Each day I can scarcely breathe with the power of it." 

Sherlock pulled back and kissed his forehead, eyes squeezing shut.

"I will come to Beaton after you are wed," John suggested.

"I know you would follow me anywhere, John, but I realize now that I cannot ask that of you," Sherlock said, opening his eyes to look at him.

"I belong by your side," argued John.

"I know what would ensue if you came. We would spend our years hiding from all, suffering in our constant close proximity and false interactions. Eventually someone would find out, as they always do. Our agony will come to a swift and brutal end. I will not see you waste your life in such a doomed pursuit."

Eyes welling, John shook his head. "But, Sherlock, you-"

"You possess such capacity to love others, John. I do not doubt your ardor, but there are those you would grow to care for beyond myself. Find such a person, and spend your life in easy comfort. Procreate and enjoy all that you deserve. Have a good life, and don't regret it for a moment."

John had begun to quietly weep as he listened, head bowed.

"What I said before was true. You are the only one I will ever love, and it would seem fate has turned that into my misfortune. I will exist as I ever have, denied of what I want and governed by rules I despise."

Sherlock held John as he cried, silent wracking sobs that lasted for some time. The tragedy of having such an immense heart, he told himself.  

In the end, Sherlock's favorite part was finally being allowed to hold onto his knight as John fell asleep amidst their intertwined limbs. John appeared strangely peaceful when asleep, breathing slowly with a relaxed expression. After long years sleeping among bustling soldiers, he proved malleable and highly resilient to Sherlock's ongoing examinations.

He claimed John three more times in the night, gently so as to prevent injury. He did so because he knew he would never have another opportunity, but also because he drew great enjoyment from waking John. The knight would drowsily blink at first, but then a great euphoria would overtake his features as he remembered where he was and saw who was looking back at him.

Afterwards, John would speak of his undying love and devotion. Sherlock continued his experiments with angle and speed and rhythm, gauging his success by John's reactions. After the last time, John was left trembling and unresponsive for several minutes. Upon recovering, he simply stroked Sherlock's jaw with one hand and gazed at him with great sorrow in his eyes.

Finally, faint dawn light was detectable through the window, and Sherlock knew their time was coming to a close. He hadn't slept at all, experiencing little tiredness and preferring to absorb every possible moment of feeling John wrapped around him. The knight was slumbering peacefully, and Sherlock understood it was his last chance to confess.

"I wish to keep you," Sherlock whispered to him. "I've prayed to God in Heaven each night since we've met that I could. Even before I truly knew what I was asking."

John remained in steady sleep.

"I will suffer greatly in the years to come, knowing what I have lost. But I would not sacrifice our time for anything."

The knight lay motionless. Sherlock buried the fingers of one hand in John's hair and gripped him closer.

"I love you, John," he said with despair. "I doubt you will ever know how much."

\---

That evening, two days before the wedding, John and many of the other knights were occupied with escorting the last straggling groups of wedding guests to their quarters.

John felt strangely numbed. When Irene had explained her intentions the previous evening, he realized he had been granted an opportunity for closure with Sherlock. Somehow, the experience had only left him all the more conflicted and depressed. Any illusion that their relationship was simply some fleeting impulse was now soundly disproven, but there existed no reasonable course of action that could prevent its annihilation. John’s distress had settled within him like a coarse presence, borne as a scar deeper and more debilitating than his shoulder wound had ever proved. There was an element of full resignation that had not been present earlier. It was a raw weight he was sure to bear for the rest of his life.

He was now joined by one Lady Anthea, who apparently had arrived to serve as a representative for Earl Mycroft Holmes. She was as cryptic and unreadable as Sherlock appeared at times, and John wondered whether the entire household of Greyhurst was born and bred with that particular array of skills. She was joined by a very small retinue of knights, now housed in the garrison, as well as two female attendants.

John bowed before her when they met for the first time. "I am Sir John Watson, here on behalf of Duke Moriarty. He is, at present, indisposed and unable to attend his guests.”

“Curious,” Lady Anthea commented faintly, although her inquisitive stare suggested she was referring to John himself rather than the Duke’s ailment. John motioned for Anthea and her ladies to follow down the carpeted hallways of the keep.

"What is your relation to the Holmes family?" he asked in a polite tone.

Lady Anthea regarded him appraisingly. "My sister is married to the Earl, although I have served the family for many long years. I am not well-liked by Sherlock, but his brother has found use of my skills."

"Your skills?"

"Among other activities, I represent the Earl on occasions he is unable to be present."

"He must trust you a great deal," John observed.

"In all matters. Especially those of life and death."

"Does he expect this affair to be categorized in such a way?"

Anthea eyed him, seemingly considering what to say. "They tell me you are an honorable knight, and a supporter of the Holmes family."

"I do not wish to cause offense, but that is hardly true," John answered defensively.

"Oh? Mycroft informs me you are quite attached to his brother."

John raised an eyebrow, not bothering to maintain a composed countenance. The time for hiding was long past. "How would the Earl know of that? I have neither met nor spoken to the man."

"The Earl is connected to a great many sources of information. Of _all_ stations," Lady Anthea replied. "There are those who say I can trust in you. I am inclined to believe those sources, as their judgments of character have previously proven critical in preserving my own life."

"By my honor as a knight, you can trust me. I wish no ill conclusion for Sherlock's home and family."

"Then I shall be brief. I am here by the Duke's decision, as no men from Greyhurst were allowed attendance outside of a small knightly escort. Duke Moriarty sees little threat in a woman. A woman may not have the skills of warfare that a knight possesses, but we do have other strengths; notably, the gift and grace of words. I beg you to heed mine now: there are evil men at work in this castle. Plots far beyond your troubles or my own, I assure you. We encounter one such conspiracy in the upcoming nuptials, an event accomplished by subterfuge."

"The Earl gave his approval. All agree it is legally sound," John told her.

"At first sight, yes. Mycroft's seal and signature are held by the Duke. Mark my words, however; if any judicial representative were to investigate beyond the formalities, they would discover vile and illegitimate methods in the way they were obtained."

They had reached the entrance to the women’s quarters. John paused several yards away, turning away from the guards and speaking in a low tone. "Threats?"

"Among other techniques,” Anthea answered quietly. “The Duke holds Greyhurst in a stranglehold of taxation and oppression. His power rivals only that of the king, and I fear we are outmatched at every point of conflict. Many men in the surrounding shires are corrupted by the Duke's influence."

A knot of livid misery flared in his chest. "You come to me for help, then. There is little I can do, my lady. I am simply a knight, and as powerless as the rest."

Anthea smiled with secret knowledge. "Power comes in many forms, sir. You possess a great deal of power over Sherlock, if the information we received is true. He trusts you above all others and will not hesitate to heed your suggestions."

"And what, pray tell, do you wish me to suggest?" John asked incredulously.

"Such details are best left unsaid. I believe you know, sir. Annulment of this ceremony would be a long and difficult process with a low chance of success. It is best if it not occur altogether."

"You are brave for coming here and seeking out aid, my lady, but I have sworn sacred oaths to my liege the Duke,” John confessed. “I cannot betray his trust, no matter how personal the cause. I am bound by the laws of chivalry."

"I do not doubt it, sir, and your words are not unexpected. I hope, for all our sakes, that Mycroft's faith in you is as well-placed as he believes. You may yet find opportunity to test your convictions."

With a final bow, John watched as Anthea and her ladies passed into the women’s quarters. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt completely and utterly helpless to stem the inevitable catastrophe taking form before his very eyes.

\----

It was the morning of the day before the wedding when the news broke like a thunderclap over the castle and all its inhabitants.

Duke Moriarty was dead. Quite unexpectedly, in fact, and in defiance of his physicians' estimations.

News travelled quickly. Courtiers and commoners alike whispered and wondered whether the festivities would be postponed. James, the new Duke, announced emphatically at breakfast that his father would have wished the wedding to continue as planned, especially since he had been sick for some time and this turn of events was an ever-present possibility. Several of the more conservative nobles muttered sour comments regarding bad taste, but none would sway Duke James' decision.

Sherlock watched the proceedings with extreme consternation. Between himself and James, the entire castle and the lives of its denizens were game pieces to be moved and influenced in their continuous conflict. He easily recognized that the death of the late Duke was absolutely no coincidence; in fact, it was a crowning masterstroke. As Sherlock reflected on it, the state of the board became starkly apparent with a deafening, deadly clarity. It was, perhaps, time that he called on James.

The new Duke’s chambers were lightly guarded. Pretentious to the last, James had even informed the sentries to expect Sherlock’s visit.

Inside, James was seated in his father’s opulent chair, hands folded in a mockery of civil courtesy.

“Did you relocate to your father’s chambers the moment he passed, or did you wait the full hour?” Sherlock asked, relaxing his arms and staring him down.

“Here to renew your fealty?" the new Duke retorted.

"Don't bother playing the fool, James. We both know I am simply saving you the inconvenience of coming to my quarters."

James tilted his head curiously, a dark smile growing. “Hardly the respectful way to address your new liege.”

“Spare me the grandiose diatribe,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"What shall I tell you, then?” James watched him with merciless dark eyes. “You are aware of what I will say, as I am aware of your looming complaints. By all means, though, speak your piece for the sake of posterity. Impress me with your observations."

"Patricide," Sherlock stated.

James dared a high laugh. "You accuse me of killing my own father?"

Sherlock frowned. "I had my suspicions from the beginning. A strange, sudden illness? Your father demonstrated a long history of good health, extending back to the days of the plague. I suspect you used a diluted tincture of monkshood. Easy enough to harvest in the nearby wood and even simpler to deliver into your father's wine goblet. I should have noticed the connection more readily. You've slowly poisoned him for months."

A proud smile emerged on James' face. "It proved high time for him to retire. I grew tired of waiting for the old man to finally die, so I took matters into my own hands. Quite inconvenient to have him interfering in my machinations, you see. He lingered far longer than I expected."

Sherlock met his gaze evenly, waiting.

"With those trivialities out of the way, we can attend to the _true_ reason for your audience. You wish to know what will become of you."

"Indeed."

"Oh, I intend that the current plan not be altered.” James leaned impassively against one palm, supported on the arm of the chair. “It is so very convenient to remove you to a little backwater estate such as Beaton. Earl Adler assures me you will remain under lock and key. This entire wedding is laughable, of course. It would never stand up in the king's court of law. Fortunately, Earl Adler is willing to overlook such trifling issues to secure a promising match for his daughter. Once wed, the church will have little reason to annul the contract."

"I am not the only one who works to undermine you, James," Sherlock warned.

"I disagree, unfortunately. Your brother remains impotent while you are a hostage. The king neither knows nor cares. Your dear knight wouldn't help you if he could, Sherlock. He is sworn to Northrop, and takes his oaths far more seriously than you or I. Regardless, this morning I have ordered that he be assigned to escort a treasury envoy to London. He will be departing on the morrow, long before he knows of your... predicament."

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer. Duke James made a motion with his hand, and a servant moved to knock several times on one of the side doors. Sir Sebastian entered the room, a cruel smile painted on his face.

James stood. “Kneel, Lord Holmes, and swear your fealty to my person and position.”

Unmoving, Sherlock watched him with hardened disgust.

“Sir Sebastian, help our friend to kneel.”

A hard force shoved Sherlock down, forcing him onto his knees.

“Your defiance grows tedious. You could, at least, strive to be a bit less predictable,” James complained.

“I will see you ruined, James. The balance of your transgressions will be collected in full, in front of God and men.”

"A valiant attempt, but boring nonetheless. Sebastian, escort Lord Holmes to his apartments. He is to be kept under constant guard until the time of his blessed union to Lady Irene."

Sherlock didn't resist as the muscled knight dragged him into a standing position and began pushing him into the hallway. There was no point. James possessed every possible advantage.  

The journey to his quarters was a blur as he ignored Sebastian’s provocative statements. Instead, Sherlock focused inward, searching through his extensive bank of knowledge to commence the formulation of a plan. His list of potential allies proved short and entirely unfeasible. None except Mycroft would likely suspect that James had implemented his own father’s death. Possible forces that could stand up to James’ military presence were nonexistent, aside from the king. Sherlock could attempt to smuggle a message out, but to whom would he send it? He trusted few outside the castles walls. John had clearly expressed his loyalty to house Moriarty and was not reliable for help.

He was brought back to reality when Sebastian shoved him roughly inside his chambers. Sherlock pounded against the door briefly, but the wood refused to yield. All these years he had been watching and waiting for James to make his move. Even as he rebelled against the gilded cage that the late Duke had constructed for him, there had been another subtle and far more dangerous web being woven around him. He had been blind, ultimately. Blind and unobservant, and this was the result for such stupidity.

Settling heavily into his chair, Sherlock knew with profound certainty that all was lost. He had no plan, no allies, and no hope. 


	7. In Which They Decide

Duke James Moriarty's orders unexpectedly arrived early that afternoon. Amongst the whispers and speculation about the late Duke's shocking death, a squire was quietly dispatched to the garrison with orders that a small hand-picked retinue of knights was to be sent to London early the next morning. The treasury wagon was due to depart before sunrise, earlier even than the kitchen staff rose to bake the morning bread. John was initially quite apprehensive, but after several moments consideration he realized this development was for the best. Any excuse to avoid the agony of watching the next days' wedding celebrations was to be welcomed.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found all throughout the day, but John knew it was safe to assume that he was privy to the development. Perhaps he was sparing himself from suffering a mutually painful farewell. John understood, and did not begrudge him the sentiment. It was not in Sherlock's nature to expose himself so conspicuously.

John retreated to the stables as the shadows of late evening fell across the castle. Most everyone else was either off drinking and celebrating, or if more spiritually inclined were attending a vigil for the late Duke in the chapel. The doors of the great hall were cracked open to encourage the entry of the evening summer breeze. Long strips of firelight poured out and raucous singing and shouting could be heard drifting throughout the bailey.

The sounds repelled John, and he took solace in the deserted lamp-lit stables. Even the young stable-hands had received leave to attend the festivities. He preferred to dwell alone with the familiar heaviness of heart that had weighed on him in recent months. John hoped that the wedding's finality would be enough to sever the final vestiges of connection and allow his sorrow to finally settle into a steady, rather than tumultuous, presence. As the hour of no return drew closer, he began to understand his loss would be one he carried for the entirety of his days. Raw and unrestrained, it strangled him like a pervasive constricting vine.

Straddled on the wooden partition adjacent to his courser's stall, John sorted through the contents of his saddlebags. He was musing on plans to return to the Continent when an abrupt knock caught his attention. Turning, he found Molly standing not five feet away and watching him closely.

"Lady Molly," John said, pausing in his preparations. "What brings you here so late, and without escort? I expected you would be attending the celebrations."

"I am far too occupied to attend," Molly explained in a rigid tone. "I have come to find you."

John shifted the heavy leather saddle and swung one leg over the partition. "Find me?"

"Yes. I require your aid."

He slipped off the wood to stand straight and address her more politely. "I am at your service if at all possible, my lady. What is your concern?"

Molly wandered closer, grasping with subdued nervousness at her beautifully tailored cloak. "I notice more than many believe," she said slowly. "They often do not see me, but I always see them."

"I don't understand," John answered blankly.

"I'm here for the sake of one who cares for you, and you for him."

John gaped for a moment, confirming to himself that he hadn't misheard. How could Molly possibly know?

"My father died while I was quite young," Molly said, tilting her head downwards in an endearing fashion. "I was already a ward of the Moriarty family when Sherlock came to live here. All the young women developed immediate interest in the mysterious lord. He had the worst habit of saying the absolute wrong thing in most situations, though, which put many of them off. It was unintentional, I believe, at first. After a few months the ladies completely avoided him, and their terrible gossiping reached the soldiers and everyone else in the castle. I refused to stop trying to befriend him. I thought he simply needed someone patient enough," she explained, "but I was proven wrong. He needed you. I'd never seen him connected to the world until you came, John. I think you need him, as well."

He raised a hand to his forehead, fighting the flaring heartache and compulsion to irreparably damage everything in his vicinity. "Molly... there's nothing to be done," John said. Couldn't he be left to grieve in peace?

"You don't fully understand the situation," Molly answered. "It is suspected among many that Duke James engineered the death of his own father. Many sources say that Sherlock has been locked away against his will. You are being sent away. The Duke believes he has won, sir knight. If I told you that all is not lost, and that you possess more allies than you know, would you refuse to aid us?"

John's chest palpitated. "Us?"

"Us." Lady Anthea appeared suddenly, materializing from a pool of shadow untouched by the lamplight. She wore a dark cloak that covered her almost entirely.

John narrowed his eyes at her. "Manipulating others to persuade me, now, my lady?"

"She is outwardly quite the sympathetic figure, I think you'll agree," Anthea observed. "Lady Molly happens to support my intentions, and her opinion obviously carries more significance for you."

"Please, John," Molly begged. "You are absolutely critical. With your involvement, hope remains alive."

And there it was. A crossroads, of sorts. John could embrace the burden he'd slowly constructed in his time at Northrop. One last gambit to salvage what he truly wanted. Or, he could dissolve it entirely and pray that his conscience and his heart would recover in time.

He touched a hand to his chest, remembering his explanation to Sherlock about the meaning of his heraldic insignia. Abandoning the pursuit as long as there was a chance was both contradictory and a betrayal of everything he believed. Infinitesimal as that chance may be, he grimly resolved to see it through to the end. John's eyes snapped into sharp focus. Molly and Anthea were watching him curiously.

"It has occurred to me today, ladies, that upon the late Duke's passing my Godly oaths to his service disappeared as well." John fisted his hands in steely defiance. "I swore to him personally, not his family, and most certainly not his son. At this time, I am unsworn except to those basic tenets of knightly virtue: to fight for the cause of justice, to protect the weak and oppressed, and to follow my conscience in all matters. If there is a way, I am willing to give what is necessary."

"It will be exceedingly dangerous," Anthea warned. "How steep a price are you willing to pay?"

"My very life, if it would preserve his," John answered without hesitation.

\---

Lying flat underneath his writing desk, Sherlock carefully traced every seam and crack in the cold stone wall before him. For hours he had been scouring every inch of his chambers for any possible hidden exits or entrances, or even a hole through which to purvey a message. Most of the furniture lay in a disheveled, unceremonious pile at the center of the sitting room to clear space near the walls. The tall bookshelf had produced a resounding boom when it fell (free of his valuable books, of course) and Sherlock was as yet unsure whether the guards hadn't heard it through the dense walls or simply didn't care that he was violently disassembling his apartments.

It was reasonable to think that the Moriarty family had constructed secret passages throughout their ancestral castle, but as a hostage Sherlock had never been privy to much of that knowledge. He had deduced where most of the hidden servants' passages were located, but they primarily emptied into the chilly underground store rooms or other dead ends. The significant castle officials had mysteriously disappeared and reappeared in his presence on several different occasions, but only from various offices and public rooms. There was no evidence that any of the guest rooms possessed arcane passages. He had already thoroughly checked his bedroom (the most likely room, for quick escape of a sleeping lord during an attack), but came up with nothing. Sherlock held onto the dim hope that the Moriarty family's previous generations were as paranoid and precautionary as the current one.

The light outside the single locked window had grown dark several hours past, and his internal clock told him it must be nearing midnight. Sherlock expected to be removed from his chambers for the days' preparations at sunrise, which gave him less than six hours to find a means of escape. The initial plan had called for breaking his window with a heavy paperweight and climbing out on a makeshift rope, but that route would publicly deposit him in the middle of the central bailey with two fortified walls and a yard full of guards between him and freedom. The climb would be near impossible to make unseen. It would have been ideal if there were some way to reach the roof of the great hall or other outbuildings, but the castle's architecture worked against him. All that existed was a sheer plummet down the clean, vertical lines of the keep. What he needed was a secluded means of reaching the ground floor, hence his current plan of finding a hidden passageway.

He intended to avoid thinking about John, but in the course of his tedious task his mind inevitably spiraled back to the knight. Sherlock told himself that it was over, that their time was done and it was pointless to waste his time and energy on unfulfilled speculation. Logically, there should be no reason to think of John. Doing so would not aid the situation.

But then, unbidden, the memories would replay anew; John throwing rocks into the river in the wood, John with his astounding smile as he rode adorned with Sherlock's scarf, John breathless beneath him in bed, John peacefully sleeping without the weight of his cares. A pressure would build in Sherlock's chest then, without fail, and he could almost believe he possessed the strength to destroy his stone prison with his bare hands.

Sherlock slid further under the desk to reach the back corner of the room. The mortar between the bricks was crumbling and he methodically tested every inch for structural weakness. As he passed his hands over the unbroken wall, the glimmer of hope in his mind grew ever smaller. Perhaps it was time to consider more extreme measures? Wounding himself severely enough to convince the guards he required medical attention was the most promising option. A scalp wound? Done correctly, that would produce enough blood to alarm anyone.

The handle of the door rattled suddenly as if someone were unlocking it. As unlikely as it was that someone was coming to take him away at this hour, Sherlock nonetheless sped his inspection of the wall. He swept his hands over wide swathes of stone as the locking mechanism clicked loudly, and the wooden door swung inward.

Several pairs of feet - six individuals, by Sherlock's count - cautiously entered the room.

"Quite the mess. Is this how he lives?" ridiculed an unidentified woman.

"Sherlock?" came Molly's soft voice.

What was she doing here? Sherlock turned his head where he lay under the desk. "Molly? Are the guards with you?"

"No," answered Molly's voice. "They're asleep outside."

He rolled himself out from under the desk and promptly rose, glancing at Molly and her companions over the pile of overturned furniture. Molly was accompanied by the ladies Clara, Harriet, and Mary, as well as two maidservants that Sherlock did not recognize.  

"We offered them wine laced with a potent drug," explained Clara proudly.

"What were you doing under that desk?" asked Mary, balking at the mess.

"Nothing of import," Sherlock answered, observing their expressions. It seemed subterfuge and intrigue agreed with Clara and Mary. Harriet appeared an unwilling participant, and Molly was simply determined. "I assume you've come to indulge me in some variety of escape?"

"Something like that," said Molly. "Your friend Lady Anthea explained what has happened and requested our participation."

He almost laughed. Anthea as his _friend_? More like his connection to whatever ploy Mycroft had concocted. It appeared he had discounted his brother too quickly. As he had discounted Molly.

"This is no game, Molly," Sherlock admonished. "You could be severely punished for helping me."

"A good reason to leave while we can explain this away as a mistake," said Harriet in an irritable tone.

"No, Harriet," Molly replied forcefully. She nearly glared at the other woman. "I didn't lie when I said you have a stake in this, as well."

Molly then glanced at Sherlock questioningly. He gave a slight nod of permission.

"You are making little sense, Molly," Harriet said, exasperated. "I have rarely been in Lord Holmes' presence. We are hardly acquainted, and my patience wears thin."

"Sherlock is your brother's secret devoted," expounded Molly.

The room fell dead silent. The women passed shocked expressions between Molly and Sherlock.

"Your assertion is completely ridiculous," declared Harriet, after a moment. "John's been seeing Mary. Hasn't he?" She faced Lady Mary.

Mary shook her head. "I've been telling you for months. It's not me."

"This is no time to be timid, Mary. A man's freedom is at stake. We won't tell," said Clara.

Mary merely sighed and frowned at them, folding her arms.

Harriet slowly turned to look at Sherlock, brow furrowing in a remarkable imitation of John. "Impossible."

"Impossible how, Harriet?" Molly asked stubbornly. "Impossible that your brother prefers men, or that Sherlock cares for him?"

"I couldn't care less what gender my brother prefers," Harriet answered, glancing at Clara.

"John doesn't prefer men," Sherlock corrected. "He simply prefers _me_."

"You've suggested many alarming theories in your time, Molly, but this is insane," Harriet informed her. "You expect me to believe this? _Sherlock_?"

Sherlock scowled lightly, then swiftly stepped to one of the trunks at the base of the furniture pile. Shoving a chair aside, he opened it and removed the folded blue scarf. He threw it at Harriet.

She caught it, and held it up. Clara and Mary watched, wide-eyed, as she unfurled its full length and recognized what it was.

"He rode for you at the tournament," Clara stated, dumbfounded.

"Obviously."

"You've tricked him," Harriet accused. "You've manipulated him, or pretended that you loved him."

"I assure you, that is not the case," Sherlock said with determined calmness.

Harriet glanced at her companions in a vain attempt to summon another argument or explanation. When they offered nothing, she slowly walked around the pile and came close. Reaching Sherlock, she examined his face as if searching for information.

"Lord in Heaven," she said suddenly, eyes widening in shock. "You've already had him, haven't you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I've seen your expression before. It comes through no matter how you try to hide it," Harriet told him. "It's when you can't be with the one you love. I know it intimately."

He glanced at Clara. "I've seen it as well."

"We best commence the operation, Molly," Harriet said, louder. "The night grows short."

It turned out Molly's plan for smuggling him from the castle involved shrouding himself in an overlarge maidservant's robe and hooded cloak. The two serving women who had accompanied the noblewomen were in league with Lady Anthea. They provided the appropriate garb, and once pulled over his regular clothing Sherlock noticed that the robes were too short to be completely convincing. Lady Clara and Lady Harriet laughed at the image he presented, so he deemed it wise to not relate the previous times he'd disguised himself in women's clothes to observe people in the castle over the years. Servants tended to blend into the background for most nobility, so dressing as one was an optimal strategy for gathering intelligence.

Molly refused to reveal their exact destination, but she assured him that the details of the escape were being handled by other conspirators whom she dare not name aloud inside the castle walls.

He was disconcerted about abandoning his book collection, but his robes were loose enough to hide a medium-sized satchel underneath. Sherlock retrieved several of his more personal possessions, including his blue scarf. The unfinished manuscript for his guide to local plant life took up most of the bag, but it felt important to bring as a memento of something John had helped create. Only a small amount of space was left, and he glanced around the room to pick out one final item. He chose the slim English copy of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_ that John had preferred.

They departed Sherlock's apartments as swiftly as they could manage. The unconscious guards were cleverly arranged so that they appeared to be standing against the wall on either side of his door. He took a moment to admire the women's audacity, and wondered how enraged James would become upon finding his guards outwitted so easily.

The halls of Northrop were deserted apart from the odd patrolling guard or harried servant fetching fresh water for their lord or lady.  The castle was usually quiet after an evening of feasting and drinking. The women moved in a tight flock, attempting to appear casual as they travelled, floor by gradual floor, toward the exit of the keep.

They were stopped only once in a moment of tense terror. Rounding a corner on the second floor, they ran directly into the Duchess and a party of her handmaidens. Clearly just returning from their vigil in the chapel, they were all dressed in black for mourning of the Duke. The Duchess, face blank and resolute and seemingly untroubled despite her husband's recent death, eyed the group of women with cold eyes. She very slightly raised one eyebrow in recognition when she saw Sherlock's cloaked form, then glanced down at Molly. She nodded with the barest movement possible, then continued her journey back to her rooms. As she passed Sherlock at the rear, he heard an almost inaudible admission: "For my knight, and his regard for yours."

He glanced at her, but the Duchess' face was stone yet again. Sherlock marveled at her self-control as she passed somberly down the hall. The woman was an unrivaled master, and he almost pitied that he would no longer be able to study her skills. He had failed at concealing his affections even from the likes of Molly, whilst she had fooled almost everyone in the castle regarding her own.

A quiet word with the steward on duty, and they were allowed out into the inner bailey. The gate separating it from the outer bailey was surprisingly open, and they passed through unmolested. Molly led them directly toward the stables.

Six horses were already saddled and waiting, watched over by a yawning stable-hand wielding a lantern. They quickly mounted the row of palfreys and proceeded to amble toward the outer gate. Sherlock found it fascinatingly difficult to ride side-saddle, as the other ladies were doing. Molly reiterated the cover story - she had received word her cousin was giving birth in a town a few miles away - and the guardsmen traded a disturbed look between them. They cranked open the gate with an uncomfortably high level of noise.

The expedition through town and out into the darkened countryside swept by quickly. As soon as they cleared the main town entrance, Sherlock released a strained breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The night was cloudless and starry with a crescent moon hanging low over the trees of the Duke's wood. They ambled straight toward it until its light was obfuscated by limb and leaf.

Once safely concealed in the woods, Molly steered her palfrey next to Sherlock's. He could barely discern her features in the darkness.

"We're to meet them somewhere secret and unknown to the rest of us. They insisted you would know where," she revealed.

"I can hardly decipher the location unless you tell me who chose it," Sherlock replied.

Her face shifted in a way that suggested she was smiling. "You'll be completing the journey home with Sir John."

A wave of surprise drew Sherlock's chest tight. He knew precisely where to go. Without a word, he flicked his reins and sped the palfrey as fast as it would move. The other women muttered between themselves, mimicking the movements and attempting to keep pace. He broke off the trail suddenly, leading a weaving path through the woods by sense memory alone. The women called in hissed whispers for a slower rate of travel, but he ignored their pleas.

The palfrey shied away from dropping down the sharp embankment, but with sufficient urging it gradually clambered on at an angle. The rushing of the river was quite loud now that they were in the basin. He could hear the ladies behind him forcing their palfreys down in a similar manner. Bursting through a last fringe of underbrush, Sherlock could clearly make out two horses and two human figures standing near the waterfall in the moonlight.

Sherlock swung his leg over and dropped off his horse even before it had come to a full stop. He ripped off the maidservants' disguise and tossed it inelegantly onto the ground. His satchel was removed and dropped absently as he moved. The two figures turned at the noise, only just noticing his arrival over the sound of the waterfall. Sherlock broke into a run towards the silhouette he recognized. Before he knew it, he was tackling John to the ground in a fierce embrace.

"It's wonderful to see you, as well," John wheezed in the low moonlight, winded from the impact.

"You came," he replied, astonishment plain. John was here, solid and real. Sherlock pressed his face into the leather of the knight's doublet.

"I'll always come for you," John answered back. "I've heard of your captivity. You've not been harmed?"

"I'm quite well now," Sherlock informed him.

A sharp noise of sparking flint sounded, and a small lantern ignited like a beacon near the ground. Anthea lifted it, illuminating the entire clearing with an eerie glow.

"Lord Above, it's true," said Clara from afar as she noticed them on the ground.

"I told you," Molly's voice floated.

John struggled to stand with the weight of Sherlock on him, succeeding only by raising them both at the same time. Sherlock finally released John as Molly and her ladies led their horses nearer to the light source.

"I will return to Northrop in your place wearing the your previous disguise, Sherlock," Anthea explained. "You and John will take these coursers and return to Greyhurst as quickly as possible. In the saddlebags you will discover supplies enough for a week, though a direct course would take far less time. Earl Holmes will order his men to be on the lookout for you both."

"Can he guarantee our safety? James will not sit idle," Sherlock said.

"I would not be here if your brother had not assured me of such," Anthea retorted. "Your duty is to avoid capture and reach your home alive."

"I must apologize for placing you in danger, ladies," John said to the women. "This isn't your conflict."

"How dare you, John Watson!" Harriet scolded, stepping forefront. The other ladies parted to make room for her animated gesturing. "Refraining from telling your own sister about your intrigues, then convincing yourself that you carry the monopoly on dangerous activities."

"Harry-"

"No! You've protected me for as long as I can remember," she continued. "Let me tell you something, brother of mine - it's _my_ turn to protect _you_. You have an extraordinary opportunity to attain what I never could. Do not seek forgiveness for it."

John studied her for several seconds before his expression hardened. "As soon as we're safe you must come to Greyhurst. Promise me."

"Yes, I promise," Harriet said as she rolled her eyes. "But until then, I will deflect and defend you to any who will listen. Your reputation is about to be irrevocably ruined and I will prevent its complete destruction to the best of my ability. These marvelous ladies will watch out for me. Worry about yourselves."

"Harry, that is almost... selfless of you." John sounded bemused.

"I'm allowed to do that every now and then," Harriet answered. "Be safe, and God speed you on your journey."

\---

Sir Gregory woke to shouting echoing throughout the garrison. He instinctively clambered from his bunk, grabbing the sword leaning against the nearby wall. There were no invaders, however; several of Duke James' guards were thundering across the wooden floorboards rustling any available sleeping knights. Tobias and William, nearby in their bunks, sat up drowsily.

"What's all this commotion, Sir Sebastian?" he asked when he saw the tall knight enter the room. "These men have duties to perform on the morrow."

"We've been summoned by order of the Duke," Sebastian replied tensely. "It's been discovered that Lord Holmes has escaped. If he is not recovered, there will be no festivities at which these men need perform."

"How did he escape?" questioned Tobias, standing and searching for his boots.

"That is the gravest news of all; Sir John was seen departing Northrop earlier this evening and has not returned. He is unaccounted for."

"You think he's involved?" asked William disbelievingly.

"The Duke's informants say Sir John has traitorously agreed to escort the lord home for an exceedingly large sum of money from the Holmes family," Sebastian explained gravely. "Lord Holmes is to be taken alive. No quarter is to be given for Sir John or any other accomplices."

William and Tobias shared a look, then glanced at Gregory.

"I've always said he was too quiet and too smart for his own good," condemned Tobias.

"I don't wish to doubt him, but if the Duke has found convincing evidence..." William trailed.

They waited for their commander to say something. To approve or disapprove their notions and provide moral guidance. Their actions in the next few hours could prove fatal for John, Gregory knew. If their liege claimed that their compatriot was a traitor, it was not his place to argue. At the same time, Gregory was uneasy. He had never known John to voluntarily break an oath he had sworn. This situation reeked of suspicious manipulation.

He took the middle road and said nothing, simply nodding at his men.

The knights quickly moved to dress and arm themselves. Sebastian, ready to go, left to oversee the squires assembling the horses.

As he prepared his belongings, Gregory couldn't help but mull over the possible reasons that John might willingly leave with their liege's hostage. Money was a common motivator, but John had never proven especially keen on the accumulation of wealth when presented with less-than-legal opportunities. Besides, even if he were successful, he would never be employed by any household in England within range of the rumors that were likely to spread. Even a hint of disreputable conduct was enough for a lord to pass on hiring a knight. No, if John were solely after money it would be far more profitable to remain at Northrop. There was no shortage of unintelligent knights, in Gregory's experience, but John Watson was not among their ranks.

There was only one possible reason remaining: something personal. He froze as his chain of thought churned, realization suddenly dawning. Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Sir Gregory? Are you all right?" asked Tobias from the far wall where he was rummaging through a trunk.

Gregory looked around and noticed he had been standing stock-still for several moments.

"Yes, I'm fine," Gregory answered neutrally. Tobias's expression betrayed his disbelief, but he said no more.

He had warned John, damn it all! Months ago, and several times hence! Acting rashly over personal feelings hardly ended well for knights, especially in regards to the high nobility.

John had likely weighed the risk versus the reward. Odds favored John ending up on the receiving end of one of the knights' broadswords. Gregory hoped to God that Sherlock was worth it.

"Five minutes!" Gregory barked to the garrison of knights. "We depart in five minutes!"

\---

John uneasily stood outside the wood-beam building, holding onto the reins of the horses. He had placed himself between the animals and the broad and bustling street in front of him, blocking him from view and creating a superior vantage point from which to watch the crowd. They had arrived at Dewer's Crossing on the town's market day, by the size of the crowd and rows of fresh produce and livestock. Farmers and craftsmen shouted their wares and argued loudly over prices. The distracting noise had proven helpful when they entered the town unnoticed around mid-afternoon. The late afternoon sun was now spreading between the thatched rooftops, and John sincerely hoped that Sherlock would quickly finish whatever business had brought them here.

John wasn't familiar with the geography of the area, but Sherlock seemed intent on following a roundabout route to Greyhurst. They had ridden almost nonstop through the entire first night and day, putting as much distance between themselves and the knights who were bound to be pursuing them. It was a hard and unforgiving pace, and John had been relieved to break for the night long after the sun had set. The second night was passed under a cold and uncomfortable hedge, John gripping tight to Sherlock for warmth more than anything else. He had rested fitfully until Sherlock decided to start up before dawn.

Now here they were, losing time and advantage to the oncoming search parties. Sherlock had already run through his calculations of how fast and far the Duke's knights would spread over time. He had added a disconcerting observation that, in his newfound experience, running away was significantly more enjoyable with John around.

John shifted further behind the neck of his horse, hoping that few would notice him and be able to provide a first-hand account to those who would eventually search this town.

Sherlock said the man who lived in the building behind him was a wool merchant and a trustworthy contact. During his wait in the wood for Molly and the other women to bring Sherlock, Anthea had explained that Mycroft had provided the means for their escape and journey. Apparently, Sherlock had figured out exactly who among his brother's friends was waiting to provide supplies.

A small boy climbed onto a set of crates across the street. He tossed a small tied-off woolen bag absently between his hands, but his eyes were on the crowd rather than the toy. John watched him cautiously for several minutes as the boy methodically scanned everyone in the vicinity. There was something odd about the way he was looking-

"Ready to leave?" Sherlock's voice asked nearby, startling John. He glanced at Sherlock in surprise, then back at the boy on the crates, who was now leaping off the lowest one and running back through the crowd.

 _Damn_. There was only one explanation for that sort of behavior.

"I can't yet. Sebastian is here somewhere," John answered, raising his head in an attempt to identify which direction the boy was heading.

"What?" Sherlock asked. "How do you know?"

"An old tactic he used during manhunts back in France. He's employed a team of street urchins to look for us," John sighed, turning around. "One just spotted us and ran off to tell Sebastian for an undoubtedly insignificant amount of silver."

Sack of supplies slung over his shoulder, Sherlock stared at him. "We can outrun him," he said with weak certainty.

John shook his head firmly. "You need to leave. Sebastian's almost certainly riding a destrier. We'll never outrun him now that he knows we're in the area. I'll rendezvous with you on the south road out of town. Find the first wooded area after the second farm; I'll meet you there as promptly as possible."

"John," Sherlock said, eyes widening in comprehension. He should have known Sherlock would be too intelligent to believe him.

"I promised to deliver you home, no matter the difficulty. This is our most reliable option. I must create a false lead if we are to succeed."

"I'm not leaving without you," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"I'll meet you outside town. I promise," John lied.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, and John could see that he was brimming with complete opposition to the plan. To his credit, Sherlock refrained from wasting any more valuable time with ineffectual argument. Instead, he simply nodded with a tense set to his eyes.

John quickly transferred as much from his saddlebags to Sherlock's as he dared: a small sum of coin, his excess food stores, and other useful supplies. He paused to place his hand on his sheathed sword for only a moment before resolutely removing it from his horse and neatly attaching it to the side of Sherlock's saddle.

"You'll need your sword," Sherlock observed.

"It's simply excess weight. Speed will prove the best weapon," he countered as he tugged taut the straps that held it in place. "Besides, I won't have you roaming the countryside without a means of protecting yourself."

When finished, he watched Sherlock resolutely until the lord reluctantly mounted his courser.

"This isn't farewell," Sherlock said as he settled onto the laden animal.

"Of course it isn't," John answered, patting the horse's neck. "Just- promise me that if I am unable to arrive in a timely manner, you will continue the journey to Greyhurst. I will find you on the road, in such a case that I am delayed."

"As you say," muttered Sherlock with artificial acquiescence. His false fronts may work to fool most people, but John knew him too well. It wasn't important; forced or not, Sherlock would be safe on the road soon enough.

With one final dissatisfied glance, Sherlock departed toward the south gate.

Watching him leave, John knew he had made the right decision. He quickly stepped into the saddle of his own horse, and steered it toward the bustling marketplace. Somewhere within, Sebastian was undoubtedly drawing closer.

He knew finding Sebastian among the stalls would be a difficult task, and so he took the passive approach of riding slowly through the busy lanes and allowing the street lads to spot him again. He favored the eastern section of the market for quick access to the nearby exit in the event of sighting Sebastian. Hopefully, the other knight would assume Sherlock had run off in that direction as well and encourage the search parties to turn their focus away from the correct path.

After nearly a quarter of an hour, John finally noticed several young boys scampering away through the crowds. John forced a casual demeanor as best he could; his skills didn't hold a candle to Sherlock's acting abilities, but he could damn well feign ignorance if it bought Sherlock an extra few minutes' head start.

He casually led his courser along a row of livestock pens and thatched buildings on the perimeter of the open marketplace. Searching fruitlessly among the myriad faces, John focused on any riders who might be approaching him. None seemed bulky enough to be Sebastian, and he suddenly realized that there might be more than one knight in Dewer's Crossing looking for him. If that were the case, any number of the nearby riders could be potential pursuers.

A rough hand suddenly grabbed John by the loose material of his doublet, catching him off-guard and rapidly pulling him sideways off his saddle. Landing hard on the compacted dirt, he looked up to see Sebastian's hooded face staring down with an expression of great annoyance. John realized he had had seriously miscalculated in yet another area; he had assumed Sebastian would unequivocally choose a horse as the means of his pursuit. Sebastian was on foot, and John's focus on the riders had allowed him to approach unnoticed.

"Where is he?" Sebastian growled, grasping John's left arm and twisting it back painfully.

John let out a curse that was absorbed by the clamor of the crowd, but resolutely refused to answer.

"Loyalty will buy you nothing, John. We'll find him one way or another. It's inevitable." The large knight glanced around the milling townspeople. Several had stopped to watch the proceedings, but once they saw Sebastian's sword and the heraldic insignia of the Moriarty family on his garments, they relaxed and seemed content enough to simply watch with curious expressions. Just another knight catching a criminal in the name of the local lord.

"Back to your business!" Sebastian snapped, and the peasants swiftly turned away. He returned his attention to John, drawing his sword with his free hand. "Thought I would give chase, did you? Why waste my time so pointlessly? Duke Moriarty made it clear you would prove far more useful as bait if we managed to catch you alive and separated from Lord Holmes. Your tactics are immensely predictable. All I need do is hold you here until Lord Holmes inevitably realizes you aren't coming to meet him. He'll return for you eventually, and I'll be waiting for him when he arrives."

The blow to the back of John's head came swift and fast. Before he had a chance to identify what had happened, darkness was already swallowing his senses.


	8. In Which They Hope

John was deluding himself if he ever thought he could convince Sherlock to leave town without him. Separation was no longer an option Sherlock was willing to entertain, although John showed uncanny determination to play the self-sacrificing diversion. His normally accommodating manner was replaced by the inflexible stoicism of the soldier, and they could have easily wasted precious hours in heated deadlock. Sherlock quickly decided it was more practical to allow him to think he had won the argument.

Rather than depart Dewer's Crossing, Sherlock shadowed John as he searched the market area. It was remarkable how unobservant John became when focused on a singular task. He weaved through the rows in a vaguely circular pattern, always retaining easy access to potential escape points. John looked resigned yet steadfast, never once displaying regret in his decision to send Sherlock ahead.

Sherlock easily spotted Sebastian drawing closer through the swarming crowd, and swiftly realized he would never maneuver his horse through the throngs in time to reach the knight's inevitable point of contact with John. Glancing around, only one avenue of approach was even remotely feasible. He promptly rode his courser alongside a nearby building, rose to a standing position on the saddle, and launched himself neatly onto the thatched roofing.

Dashing over the thick material was more difficult than anticipated, as was crossing the gaps between the adjoining buildings. Dozens of people on the ground below pointed and gawked as he traveled, but the busy marketplace drowned out any shouts of surprise and left most of the crowd largely oblivious to the man on the roof.

By the time he reached where John and Sebastian were located, the large knight had wrenched a shocked John from his saddle, locked him in a vicious grip on the ground, and was yelling something unintelligible. Firm determination was set in John's features as he endured Sebastian's interrogation. Sweeping the area, Sherlock found he was standing on the roof adjacent to several covered livestock enclosures.

Acting quickly, he swung his legs over the side of the roof and began steadily kicking with one foot at the central support beam of the nearest enclosure. The beams were held together with simple wooden pegs, and after sufficient force was delivered they cracked magnificently. Three more carefully-placed blows, and the beam commenced a slow downward swing.

Sherlock had enough time to glimpse Sebastian strike the back of John's head with the pommel of his broadsword, knocking him unconscious instantly. John fell forward like a rag doll, with Sebastian scowling above him. At that moment the beam reached the ground, weakening the wooden struts enough to cause a total structural collapse.

Chaos ensued as a mixed herd of pigs, sheep, and several bulls bolted to escape the failing roof as it crashed to the ground. The people in the vicinity reacted in a similar manner, shouting and launching themselves away from the stampede. Sebastian turned at the sudden noise and instantly fled with the rest of the crowd. The animals struggled to fit amongst the people, and several stalls and tents buckled in a tumultuous cascade of destruction. Sherlock slid off the thatched roof, catching the edge and safely lowering himself to the ground.

People were yelling and rushing past, but Sherlock forced his way to where John had fallen. The knight was unmoving where he lay, thankfully not trampled. Sherlock grabbed his arms and began pulling him out of the thoroughfare, back towards the gap between the collapsed pen and the building next to it. John was heavier than he seemed, though, and it took several great tugs to get him clear of the disorderly crowd.

They needed a route of escape. Sherlock had essentially abandoned his courser in his bid to climb onto the roof, and John's horse had been scared off by the released animals. Neither was a reliable exit point. Sebastian would be coming back as soon as possible, and they needed to be gone or hidden by that time. He leaned John against the building, concealed behind a nearby barrel, and quickly continued through the gap into the vacated street on the other side. Everyone had been repelled on this side of the enclosures, as well, and Sherlock took the opportunity to search for some means of escape. Then he saw it.

This time, Sherlock had the correct leverage to physically hoist John over his shoulder. Carrying him was easier than dragging, although Sherlock was appreciative that John had decided not to wear any of his metal armor. He steadily made his way across the dusty road to the unoccupied wagon he had spotted; its quality and craftsmanship clearly identified it as belonging to a peasant who undoubtedly lived outside Dewer's Crossing. The back was filled with empty coarse woolen sacks, left over from the goods and produce he had brought to town to sell at the market. The horses were set and waiting; everything indicated that the peasant would be soon departing for home. It was their best chance for escaping town before the Duke's knights began systematically searching for them.

Sherlock carefully lowered John onto the bed of the wagon, then got onboard as well. He cleared several of the sacks aside and tugged John into the gap he had created. Once satisfied, he laid down next to him and proceeded to spread the rough wool to hide them both.

In due course the murmur of the crowd grew stronger as people returned to their business. It wasn't long before the owner of the wagon arrived. The wooden frame jostled as he entered his vehicle. With a shout to the horses, they began rolling on creaky wheels.

The ride was long and considerably annoying. Every bump and rut in the road could be distinctly felt through the inexpensive wooden axles. Sherlock occupied himself by ensuring both he and John had sufficient access to air. The light streaming through the holes of the loosely woven sacks faded over the hours until he could no longer see John's outlined form. He checked regularly for warm breath on his palm, which told him John was breathing on his own.

He knew the area too poorly to judge where they were heading. Southeast, it seemed, which was fortunately the generally correct direction.

His reaction to John's decision to separate had been admittedly rash. Sherlock rarely engaged in dangerous endeavors without some semblance of a plan of escape. He had abandoned their horses, supplies, weapons, and personal affects without a second thought in his attempt to prevent John's capture and likely execution. If he wasn't first used against Sherlock, of course. Surely James had anticipated employing such a strategy. It would have undeniably worked.

The wagon creaked to a halt and shifted as the driver disembarked. Sherlock listened carefully, hearing muted conversation between the man and a woman, undoubtedly his wife. He hadn't quite thought this entirely through; they needed to depart unseen, but doing so would be difficult with an unconscious-

Sudden cold air flooded his face, and he looked up to see a confused peasant farmer with an armful of sacks staring down at him. The man pulled back, surprised to find stowaways in his wagon. Sherlock sat up, raising his arms to show he was unarmed.

The peasant was a dirty, weather-beaten man with a gray beard and untamed wiry hair. He shouted in rapid English, calling toward the nearby hovel for his wife. Sherlock understood very few of his words, cursing internally that he hadn't spent longer learning the language. The appeal of fluency had fled his mind once he realized practicing meant wasting valuable private time with John.

A matching grubby woman stood in the doorway of the home, waving her hands at her husband and presumably telling him to handle the intruders himself. The peasant man directed his shouts at Sherlock, and he picked out enough words to understand the man was asking who he was, what he was doing there, and telling him to leave.

Sherlock pointed down into the wagon next to him. " _Knight_. Lord, how do you say it... _dead._ "

The man's eyes widened. He began crossing himself and chanting the Lord's prayer.

That wasn't the right phrasing. " _Not dead_ ," Sherlock corrected quickly. " _Not well."_

The man looked puzzled but stepped cautiously closer, grabbing a nearby shovel and holding it defensively. He peeked over the lip of the wagon and saw John. The knight's chest was moving, and Sherlock hoped the peasant understood that John was, in fact, not dead.

Sherlock seized the opportunity to glance around the property. The main yard was muddy and deeply rutted from decades of wagons and livestock passing through. The house was a small multi-room hovel with a rounded thatched roof. Smoke from a river-stone chimney drifted against the overcast night sky. A smaller timber storehouse stood nearby, likely filled with supplies for tending the animals. It was full-dark, and carrying John far enough to find a decent resting spot would be difficult and leave them exposed. They would need to take their chances.

" _Room_ ," Sherlock said, pointing at the storehouse. " _Room in night. Thank you."_

The peasant man twisted his bushy eyebrows in confusion.

Sherlock struggled to recall the right words. " _We in room. Thank you?"_

" _You want to stay?"_ the peasant asked, enunciating slowly.

" _Thank you. Not well."_ He indicated John again to underscore the point.

" _Pay me_ ," said the man.

Sherlock had nothing valuable with him; it all had been in his saddle bags. Even the items he'd acquired from the wool merchant. He felt the pockets in his doublet, but they were empty of anything the peasant might want. He began searching John, patting him down. The peasant man grew impatient, crossing his arms and glaring. The only thing Sherlock could find was John's dagger in his belt, their last remaining weapon. He slid it out of its leather holster, then carefully offered it up hilt-first with a look of supplication.

The peasant man took it carefully, inspecting the metal. It was high-quality castle-forged steel, and extremely useful for everyday tasks. The man nodded in approval, then slipped the dagger awkwardly into his own belt.

Moving John to the storehouse was another laborious task. Sherlock had slept very little the previous night and none at all the night before, and although normally requiring little rest he was beginning to feel the effects of tiredness seep into his body. Once John was outstretched against the loose pile of hay in the small building, Sherlock thanked the peasant man once more and attempted to ask him to keep their presence a secret. He doubted that his words adequately delivered the message, however, because the peasant retired to his hovel appearing more confused than ever.

When the door of the storehouse shut, Sherlock stood in the darkened silence for several moments. The room smelled strongly of hay and old leather. The contents insulated it enough to be marginally warmer than the outdoors, and the walls blocked the wind with mild efficiency.  

He reflected on the events of the day. It was an unmitigated disaster; the only positive outcome was that they were alive, together, and as yet unfound by the Duke's brutish men-at-arms. They were roughly two days' ride from Greyhurst, as of yet. Walking would take far longer than riding, and they had nothing of value left to trade for food or supplies. Stealing was the only reasonable course of action, but Sherlock sincerely doubted John would voluntarily engage in such an activity. He'd likely prefer finding work as a day laborer at some farm. Time was of the essence, though, and they could not afford staying in one location longer than was absolutely necessary.

Of course, that was all contingent on John recovering. Sherlock knelt in the straw and inspected him as best he could in the darkness. There was no blood, and John appeared to still be breathing at regular intervals. He was simply unconscious. Sherlock had seen men knocked out for as little as a few seconds, and heard about others who remained asleep for days on end or never woke up at all. There was no telling how long he would be absent to the world.

It was of little consequence. He would wait with John as long as was required.

Sherlock eased down into the hay next to him. A light rain had started up, evidenced by the gentle pattering on the timber walls of the storehouse. He drew closer to take advantage of John's body heat, tucking himself under one of his arms and wrapping his own across John's chest. Sherlock focused on the gentle movements of his breathing, each one a brief reassurance that his knight had not yet left him.

Despite his years in captivity, Sherlock had rarely experienced anything approaching fear. His station protected him from the most brutal of consequences. Thinking on it now, however, he realized that many of his previous escape attempts were half-hearted at best. There was never anything of true importance that could be caught in the fallout.

He should have denied Molly and the other women when they came to rescue him, should have immediately identified that they would drag John into their schemes. John had given up almost everything to embark on this risky flight, and there was no going back for him. Marrying Irene would prove a pittance of a sentence compared to actively having a hand in John's death.

There were dire repercussions in the case of failure. Ones so monumental that Sherlock felt the creeping claws of anxiety digging into his mind.

The rhythmic rise and fall of John's chest was soothing. Even unconscious, he was a steady presence that lulled Sherlock to sleep amidst the sound of raindrops on wood and tension tight in his lungs.

\---

Sherlock woke abruptly when he detected movement against his arms. He raised his head immediately, finding John's eyes open and, although worryingly lacking in their usual alertness, clearly indicating that he had returned.

Strips of dawn sunlight leaked through the cracks in the walls. Sitting up, Sherlock watched as John shifted slightly and tried to blink away his bleariness. A heavy feeling of relief washed through him, tinged with trepidation.

"Sherlock?" John asked thickly, eyes not quite focused.

"How do you feel?" he responded.

John squinted in confusion at the words. Sherlock repeated them twice more before his ability to comprehend the question fully reinstated itself.

"Bad headache. Where are we?" John questioned in a wavering voice. "What happened?"

"A peasant's farm, though I cannot be confident of the exact location. South of Dewer's Crossing. What do you remember?"

John furrowed his brow in his attempt to recall. "I remember talking to you in town and telling you to leave without me." He looked at Sherlock quizzically, unable to bridge the gap between his last memory and now.

"Sebastian found you, and it ended poorly. I was forced to... intervene. You're heavier than first glance would suggest."

"Oh." His eyes widened in bewilderment. Sherlock was pleased to see that his familiar mannerisms were reestablishing themselves.

"Can you move?"

John flexed his limbs, shifting them in an uncoordinated manner. He attempted to pull himself up into a sitting position, but was unable to direct his arms effectively. Rather than watch him struggle, Sherlock helped him upright.

A sudden muffled shouting erupted from outside the storehouse. The words were enraged French accompanied by frightened English, and a cold chill spread up Sherlock's spine.

John heard it, as well, considering the visible drop in his expression.

"You should have run," John told him quietly, a whisper from only inches away. "When I told you."

"I'm not leaving you. Not anymore," Sherlock answered.

The shouting continued outside, then died down. The door of the peasant's hovel slammed shut. Two sets of heavy footsteps steadily approached the storehouse. Reaching a hand to his belt, John looked down with sudden concern when he realized his dagger was no longer there. He glanced back up at Sherlock, anguish in his eyes.

The boots stopped immediately outside the door, and a hard pounding sounded on the weak wood. The knights on the other side weren't even bothering to unlatch the wooden locking mechanism.

John moved his head to look at the door, but Sherlock caught his face between his hands and kept their eyes locked together. The wood of the door splintered fiercely, nearing its limit.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock told him numbly.

The door cracked open completely, and a set of hands grabbed Sherlock roughly from behind. He was pulled backwards out of the storehouse and into the bright morning sun, line of sight with John breaking only when he was flipped unceremoniously onto his front in the watery mud. A knee pressed him down, keeping him pinned.

"Tie him so he can't escape again," called Sir Sebastian's callous voice.

"We have him. He won't run. Will you?" asked Sir Gregory's calmer tones from right above.

Sherlock didn't answer, instead turning his head to watch as Sebastian violently dragged John from the storehouse. John fought back as best he could manage, but in his weakened state he was no match for Sebastian's strength.

"Tie him anyway. No chances," Sebastian said as he pulled John to his feet in the middle of the yard. John hadn't recovered enough to stand under his own power, though, and his joints swiftly buckled even before Sebastian let go. He collapsed heavily against Sebastian, who let him drop pitifully into the muck.

Sherlock heard Gregory grumbling to himself and felt a rough piece of rope binding his wrists together behind his back. He ignored the sensations, attention spread between John and Sebastian.

"What's wrong, Sir John? Having trouble?" Sebastian taunted. He hauled John upright again, settling him on his knees. John swayed where he sat, leaning over until one arm was firmly planted in the mud for support.

"We're to give you no quarter for conspiring against your liege lord," Sebastian told him idly, hand on his sword hilt.

It wasn't unexpected that James would decree such a swift sentence, but a spike of panic surged through Sherlock without restraint. He struggled at his bonds, but Gregory only pressed down harder in an effort to keep him still.

"My liege died three days past," John replied, tired and winded. "I swore nothing to Lord James. In absence of such an oath, I serve the cause of justice."

Sebastian drew his sword in one fluid motion. It glinted in the morning sunlight, his hand tensing restlessly about the grip. "You've always thought yourself more clever than the rest of us. Better. The Duke told me all about your little _trysts_ with the lord over there. You're no more virtuous than the next sinner."

"Is this diatribe necessary, Sebastian?" Gregory asked. He moved his arms to find a firmer hold on Sherlock, who was fighting harder against the restraints. Sherlock twisted his shoulders, attempting to dislodge the knight.

"I'm fulfilling our lord's orders as I see fit, so _shut it_ ," Sebastian spat. He looked down at John. "Even so, I can't say I haven't been looking forward to this for some time. I always hoped I'd be the one to end your life, John. It'll be all the sweeter to bear witness to Lord Holmes' face when I kill you in front of him. Duke Moriarty will dearly love to hear that tale, I assure you."

John remained silent, watching Sebastian with insolent eyes. His refusal to be swayed by the words drew an irritated frown from Sebastian. The larger knight lashed out suddenly to seize a handful of John's hair, wrenching him straighter and exposing his neck. Grimacing, John raised an ineffectual arm to repel Sebastian's grip. Sebastian leaned closer, lifting his sword to John's throat. He seemed to be whispering some last message, flexing his arm in preparation for the killing stroke. John's eyes widened in distress.

" _JOHN_!" The name was screamed with alarming abruptness, desperately inhuman and strangely foreign. Only after it had echoed between the wood-frame buildings did Sherlock comprehend that he, himself, had produced it. Nearly forgetting that someone was on top of him, Sherlock instinctively lunged forward with as much momentum as he could generate. Gregory's weight proved too much of a deterrent, however, and he succeeded only in driving himself deeper into the mud.

But, in an instant, the weight was gone from his back. Sherlock raised his head in time to witness Gregory bolting across the yard. Time stilled as he impacted with Sebastian, whose eyes were locked on John and ignorant to the oncoming assault. Gregory reached for Sebastian's sword-arm as they fell together, smoothly disarming the larger knight with practiced precision. Sebastian fell back, stunned, and Gregory roundly struck him in the head with his own sword hilt.

Sherlock was up and moving as soon as he gauged the situation. He launched toward John, who had fallen almost entirely over when Sebastian released his iron grasp. It was a retrospectively useless strategy, but Sherlock unthinkingly placed himself between John and the wrestling knights as if his mere presence could possibly protect him. He watched as Gregory connected several more blows with his fists, the sword having somehow landed several yards out of reach of either men.

Finally, Sebastian lay bleeding and unmoving in the muck. Gregory, breathing heavily from his exertions, glanced over to where John and Sherlock sat. He wiped one bloody hand on Sebastian's surcoat, then clambered to his feet.

"You're right, John. We haven't sworn any oaths to the new Duke," Gregory said. "Not yet."

Gregory walked closer, removing his dagger and motioning for Sherlock to allow him access to his tied wrists. He cut the binds with one quick motion, and Sherlock flung the coarse fiber away. Behind him, John had already lifted himself upright.

"Thank you, Sir Gregory," John said as Sherlock glanced over him for injury.

"I figured it out as soon as they told us you two had fled. To be honest, John, I've been working under the assumption that Lord Holmes has been manipulating you in order to help him escape. Witnessing his reaction a moment ago, I knew I had made a grave misjudgment."

John interrupted Sherlock's ministrations by grabbing his hands and meeting his eyes with a concerned gaze.  

"I did it for my own lady, as well," Gregory admitted. "Of the knights who came to Northrop, John, it is your affair that has come the closest to succeeding. We were all of us doomed from the beginning. I cannot be with she whom I love, and I would see at least one of our pursuits come to fruition. No matter how uncommon a form it bears. I recognize devotion when I see it."

"You are a true friend, Gregory. I will never be able to repay your aid," John said, swaying a bit.

Gregory smiled sadly. "I never doubted you, John. As for repayment, knowledge that you both are alive and happy in your circumstance will suffice. I will inform the other knights you overpowered us and guide them in a false direction. And relay my commiserations that, in the escape from our custody, you stole my horse."

"And what of Sir Sebastian?"

"He has been rather brutally attacked, and his recollections cannot be trusted. It will be my word against his, and it should not surprise you to know he is rather unpopular amongst the other knights."

"An excellent plan, but quite dangerous and flawed," Sherlock observed.

"That is why it must look convincing," Gregory warned.

Sherlock briefly nodded in understanding. He stood and frowned regretfully before delivering a solid punch to Gregory's face.

\---

John's head had been pounding painfully since he awoke in the storehouse, and being viciously manhandled in the peasant's muddy yard had not helped his situation. Anything other than simply sitting upright left him dizzy and disorientated. Sherlock and Gregory were forced to half-carry him to the large roan destrier. The muscular beast was familiar with transporting Gregory in full armor, and so carrying two unarmored passengers would hardly be a problem.

While balancing precariously on the saddle, he watched Sherlock engage in one last exchange of information with Gregory. When finished, Sherlock efficiently mounted the horse and slid into place in front of him. John's grip wasn't strong enough for Sherlock's liking, so he pulled a length of cloth from one of the saddlebags. As Sherlock tied John's hands together so they encircled his waist, John leaned heavily against his back and hazily noted that Gregory's black eye was forming quite convincingly.

"Stop only when you absolutely must," Gregory advised. He squinted worriedly at John, then frowned. "And deliver him to a physician as soon as possible."

"There will be one waiting at Greyhurst," Sherlock said, words vibrating through his chest and into John. "I trust no one else with him."

After a final farewell that John didn't quite follow, Sherlock flicked the reins and they were off.

The landscape sped past in a surreal blur, and after only mere minutes the movement of the galloping horse and flashes of brightly distorted images summoned waves of nausea and a renewed headache. Closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder only marginally relieved the symptoms. Sherlock's foresight in tying his hands proved fortunate, as it required all of John's concentration to simply endure the ride.

They stopped on three separate occasions throughout the day to take a brief rest and partake of food from the destrier's saddlebags. Each time, Sherlock tested John's balance and examined his eyes for signs that his condition was worsening. He assessed his memory and retention of information through a series of rapid questions. The tense set to Sherlock's mouth told John that his answers were not inspiring confidence.

As evening fell and a brisk wind rose over the countryside, Sherlock steered the destrier off the main road and into a secluded copse of trees. They dared not build a fire, so were forced to consume cold rations in the dark and settle against a soft fallen log to rest for the night. Their mud-soaked clothing had long since dried into flaking, uncomfortable stiffness, but there was little available to remedy it. The soiled garb and cold gusts of wind rushing through the wood soon left John shaking from exposure, miserably huddled and hurting on the ground.

Sherlock found a thin riding cloak folded up in the saddlebags and came to sit near him alongside the log. He arranged John so he sat flush against his side, legs hooking between John's for stability. He then drew the cloak over them both. It was a dark brown color and would conceal them effectively in the wood. Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's shoulders and pulled him close, as if he were afraid John might prove unable to remain upright by himself in the night. Their shared body heat created a warm cocoon out of the cloak, and John's shaking subsided even as the breeze picked up. He relaxed against Sherlock's chest, pure tiredness overriding the pulsing pain in his head.

Sherlock shifted in the dark. "What did he tell you?"

"Who?"

"Sebastian. He said something to you, right before."

It took several moments for John to sort out the memory. The day's events sat in a garbled mess in his mind. "He said that once I was dead and you were locked away again, Duke James would be making particular visits to teach you the true meaning of suffering."

The arm around his shoulder clutched tighter. "You must know, John, that if you had not left that God-forsaken farm alive, neither would I."

John released a sigh as Sherlock rested his cheek against the top of his head. The edges of the riding cloak flapped vigorously as a new gust blew past. They were located in the middle of nowhere, outdoors in inclement weather, at risk of being discovered at any moment. And yet, John would gladly brave such dangers every evening if it meant he could always stay this close to Sherlock.

"Thankfully, it seems we possess far more allies at Northrop than I anticipated," Sherlock noted. "I'll not underestimate them again.

The wind whistled through the ancient branches overhead, rustling in the darkness. Sherlock drew the cloak closer, keeping John safely shielded from the cold.

" _If_ we see them again," John said quietly.

\---

John opened his eyes slowly. The leaves above him rustled in the early dawn breeze, faint light already breaching the gaps between the branches. He was flat on the ground, cloak wrapped almost completely around him. Turning his head, he could see Sherlock standing next to the horse and rummaging through the contents of one of the bags.

Mercifully, the intense headache from the day before had relented to a persistent ache. His mind felt clearer and quicker, though not entirely recovered.

"We should have departed before first light," John chastised loudly, raising himself onto his elbows. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't wish to disturb you," Sherlock answered, turning around after tying off one of the bag flaps. He approached where John lay, kneeling down to examine him. "It would not do to sacrifice your health in exchange for a few extra hours of travel. You sound more coherent."

"I feel it."

"Then it was time well spent, although I would prefer a physician to see to you. It is time we left for home."

Sir Gregory's false report must have worked, because they saw neither hide nor hair of a knight bearing Moriarty colors for the remainder of the journey. John was able to clutch to Sherlock's grimy doublet of his own volition, although the turbulence remained a great source of discomfort. Sherlock seemed heartened by his improved condition, making few stops on the road to Greyhurst.

As the sun dipped down to touch the western foothills, Sherlock reined the destrier short.

"John," he said tensely. "Look."

John lifted his head and opened his eyes to glance over Sherlock's shoulder. Several hundred yards down the rutted road, a group of dark-colored mounted knights galloped toward them. Sherlock turned their horse in nervous circles as they waited for the gang's approach. As they neared, John could see they wore dark blue heraldry.

The knights slowed their horses to a walk and paused twenty yards away, clearly detecting Sherlock's apprehension in their advance.

"Lord Holmes?" asked one of the knights from behind the faceplate of his steel helm. "Our vigil ends at last. We have been sent to find you."

"By whom, sir?" Sherlock questioned forcefully. The destrier, sensing its rider's agitation, shook the bridle and snorted in a show of intimidation as only a horse trained for warfare could manage.

"By your brother, the Earl, of course," answered the knight. "We were told to seek two riders, though not on a single horse."

Sherlock remained mistrustful, so John slid a hand onto his arm. "I doubt James would go to such elaborate lengths to trick you," he consoled in a low voice.

"You do not know him as I do, John," Sherlock replied. Despite his words, however, he spurred the horse to join the group of knights.

The falcon-sigiled company of riders escorted them the remaining few miles to Greyhurst. The Holmes' ancestral abode was a moderately-sized castle on a rocky rise amidst gently rolling farmland. Pale grey towers rose to a modest height to overlook the territory. It was the very image of a pleasant, non-threatening seat of governance. From what John had heard of the Earl, he suspected the appearance was maintained with calculated deliberateness.

As soon as the group neared the gatehouse, John observed guards frantically running from their posts atop the wall. Indecipherable shouting echoed in the yard, stirring a flurry of activity from everyone within hearing range. Inside the bailey, the knights turned toward the stables, but Sherlock continued riding hard until they reached the entrance to the keep. He slid quickly off the horse, drawing the attention of the two guards standing near the door.

"Fetch the physician," Sherlock ordered as John carefully lowered himself from the animal. The guards disappeared inside the doorway with lightning speed. Ignoring the mob of curious soldiers and craftsmen gathering around them, Sherlock steadied John with one arm and led him across the threshold of the keep.

Several maidservants quickly scurried off to parts unknown as soon as they trudged heavily across the wooden floor of the entry hall. They traveled down several winding halls, passing shocked servants who eyed their mud-caked clothing with unease. Almost everyone was rushing one place or another, but Sherlock's stern expression warded off anyone who even contemplated approaching.

Sherlock glanced in many of the rooms they passed as if trying to regain his geographical bearings. Finally, he peeked around the doorjamb of one room and made a noise of discovery. Leading the way inside, it was revealed to be an office with a single exquisitely-crafted desk and an immense shelving unit stacked with more books than John had ever seen in his life. Sherlock forced him to be seated in the solitary guest chair.

"Where is your brother?" John asked.

"On his way, no doubt," Sherlock answered, glancing around the room.

As predicted, and before three minutes had passed, two men suddenly appeared at the entryway. One, a tall solemn-faced gentleman, was unquestioningly the Earl Mycroft Holmes. The other, a stout fellow with a bushy grey beard, identified himself as the physician when he immediately stepped towards John and began inspecting him closely.

Sherlock related the story of their escape as the physician took John's pulse and tested his vision, just as Sherlock had done so many times in the last two days.

"I see no evidence of permanent injury," the physician said when finished with his examination. "If he was unconscious for as long as you say, my lord, we must count ourselves fortunate. In the case of such a blow to the head, the only cure is extended rest until the symptoms abate. He already seems much improved from what you described, and I would predict a full recovery."

The Earl thanked him as he departed, and Sherlock's face lost a great deal of tension. The door shut, and the two Holmes brothers regarded one another with reserved coolness.

"A welcome home is in order, I believe," the Earl said diplomatically.

Sherlock mustered a brief dismissive noise.

Earl Mycroft raised a concerned eyebrow at Sherlock before turning to look at John. "I am glad to make your acquaintance, Sir John. If the tales I've heard are even halfway true, it seems I owe you my brother's life several times over. I had long planned to engineer Sherlock's escape, and your presence proved more fortuitous than even I could have predicted."

"There are several ladies at Northrop who did more to aid us than anyone," John replied. "My sister is among them, as well as your own agent Lady Anthea."

"Lady Anthea will remain perfectly safe. She's survived far more dangerous situations, I can assure you. Already, I have received word that she is well. As is your sister."

Mycroft rounded the heavy desk and took his chair. Sherlock moved to stand beside John.

"I hope you've thought this through," Sherlock noted with agitation.

"Quite," Mycroft answered absently. He flicked through several sheaves of heavy parchment on the desktop. "I have spent far longer than you know plotting the destruction of the Moriarty family. If Duke James attempts to bring any legal action against me, I must assure you that I have invested many long years in gaining the respect and favor of several of the king's most prominent judicial officials. They can guarantee a fair trial, and will undoubtedly support any and all evidence that I might produce. In fact, I am prepared to bring many nefarious things to light about the Moriarty family if they attempt to cross me again. I expect their power to wane in the coming years no matter their chosen method of reprisal."

"Some would say a wounded beast is far more dangerous than any other," John suggested.

"Desperate attempts at revenge are not unexpected, but I have prepared for every possible eventuality. There is no room for loose ends when it comes to the safety of my family."

"Not even _you_ possess omniscience enough to create truly impenetrable defenses," Sherlock observed darkly. "I've already paid for your failures with eight years of my life."

Mycroft frowned dispassionately. "I am aware of my shortcomings in that regard. Never a day went by that I was not contemplating means to gain your release, Sherlock."

"A lovely thought, and equally worthless."

"Our family is not particularly sentimental, Sherlock, but familial bonds are always forefront in my considerations. I married and produced an heir primarily because I believed it would ensure your safety and provide Duke Moriarty with less incentive in keeping you. Obliging my patriarchal duty in continuing the family lineage was merely a secondary motivation. I regret not protecting you more in your youth. Your time as a hostage should never have occurred. For that, I am sorry."

Sherlock glared at his brother. Forgiveness would not be granted on this day, John realized. A long and difficult road lay toward mending their relationship.

Mycroft shook his head sadly. "I can offer you little certainty about the years to come. Our fight with the Moriarty family is not finished. Until we meet that threat, however, I am granting you an estate and its incomes to do with as you will. Baker Hall has remained mostly unoccupied since the passing of the late Lord Hudson five years ago, who died without an heir. His widow currently oversees care for the property. She has often related her wish to see life restored to the manor, and I believe it would prove an ideal household for you."

"And your conditions?" Sherlock asked, hand tensing on the back of John's chair.

"None, save that you provide all possible aid in tasks that work towards undermining Duke James Moriarty."

"That will not be a hardship."

Mycroft's eyes shifted between Sherlock and John. "It is time you were afforded some measure of control over your own life. It is the least I owe you. I will not enforce marriage upon you without your approval. You will be the master of your household, Sherlock, and free to keep whatever staff or retainers you think necessary for your comfort and well-being."

A hint of an appreciative smile curled at Sherlock's lips. "I can only think of one, brother. Surely, I will require a captain of the guard." He glanced down at John. "That is, if you consent, sir."

"Without reservation," John answered.

Mycroft sighed. "If that is your intention, I will take the liberty of providing you with a minimal contingent of trustworthy staff. Those proven to be discreet, ideally."

\---

After replacing their soiled clothing, removing nearly five days of beard growth, and scrubbing away the clinging remainders of their travels, they took supper at Earl Mycroft's table in the great hall. The Earl announced the successful return of his brother, which was met by elated cheering from hundreds of gathered men-at-arms. John suspected the reaction had more to do with striking a blow against the Duke than any great love for Sherlock.

John reveled in his first hot meal since their entire escape ordeal had begun. The Earl apologized for the limited spread, promising a proper feast as soon as one could be arranged, but John found it a grand banquet compared to the dried jerky and hardened bread they had been living on. Soon enough, though, the rumbling din of dozens of loud conversations began grating on John's still-vulnerable senses.

He informed Sherlock that he intended to retire. In response, Sherlock conducted a brief conversation of whispers with the Earl before abruptly standing from the table and performing the prescribed bows of departure. John joined him as he left the hall.

"I'll bring you to where you'll be staying," Sherlock told him as they walked, hand at John's elbow. John glanced around for anyone who might be watching. They were unlikely to be chastised for openly suspicious conduct at Greyhurst, but John nonetheless felt uncomfortable announcing their status to anyone and everyone. The inhabitants of the castle would probably look the other way, but rumors that escaped these walls might have a negative effect on Harry and countless other acquaintances.

They reached a lonely oak door at the quiet end of one of the main hallways in the living quarters. Sherlock unlatched the door and led John through, pointedly locking it behind them. Inside was a spacious stone-walled bedroom with a curtained four-poster bed and several finely carved pieces of heavy wooden furniture. A set of tapestries and carpets lent the room a comfortable atmosphere. A low fire crackled in the fireplace and heated the drafty night air.

"This is far too refined for a knight," John commented.

"This is my chamber," answered Sherlock. "At least, it was in years past. It seems Mycroft has maintained it."

"Is it wise that I stay here? Prudence might be the shrewdest course, for now."

Sherlock gave him a sideways look. "I care little for wisdom just now. Anyway, I suspected you might respond negatively. I requested that Mycroft inform anyone who asks that I am dreadfully frightened of the Duke's terrible knights. A constant guard is the only solution to allay my fears." He smirked playfully.

"You've thought of everything," John praised with a smile.

"Indeed, I have," Sherlock said, turning. He reached a hand into an interior pocket of his doublet. With an inquiring glance at John, he produced a very familiar bottle. "Though certain thoughts are far more difficult to banish than others."

Sherlock leaned in slowly at first, but once their lips met the pent up energy was too powerful to rein in. John gripped fast, kissing him hard enough to make up for the hours and days of stressful pursuit that had prevented any serious ardor. They were safe, now, as they could ever hope to be. The immensity of it finally began to sink in as Sherlock moved them carefully back toward the bed. Against all the odds and despite all the danger, they were here and alive with all the promise of the rest of their lives before them.

A long-overdue wave of relief engulfed John, so affecting him that he simply broke off and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder. He stood clutching tight to Sherlock, whose comforting arms tentatively wrapped around him in return. John starkly felt the strength and depth of his connection to the man before him. No matter what Sherlock believed, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he could never love another so absolutely. There would be no one else.

Sherlock's hand traveled tentatively lower down his back, toying restlessly with the edge of John's doublet. "Are you well enough?" he whispered. "I don't wish to exacerbate your condition."

His head ached with dull pain, but John felt relatively normal. "You best finish what you started," he breathed, "or I shall be forced to finish it for you."

Something fundamentally altered in Sherlock's demeanor, a transformation in posture and bearing that bristled with constrained tension. His arms closed tighter, seizing a moment of full body contact before releasing John and stepping back a pace.

John knew immediately this would be far different than their previous nights together. Sherlock's eyes were predatory and possessive rather than filled with sorrow, sending a tremor of anticipation up his spine. There was no question of who would be the aggressor tonight. Sherlock pushed John firmly down onto the bed, openly studying him. John's gaze ran down the length of his body in return before reestablishing eye contact.

The visual cue served as an explosive trigger. Sherlock launched onto him with such ferocity that, if it were any other person, John would have nearly feared for his life. It was all enveloping weight and warmth and forceful hands angling his head to receive one of the most passionate kisses of his life. Long years of defensive self-restriction was quickly dissipating from Sherlock, uncoiling further into frenzied enthusiasm with every passing second. The fervent display left John breathlessly stunned, and only when Sherlock reached an arm around his back to tug his shirt free did John realize he was being rapidly stripped of his clothing.

He returned the actions, weaving his arms around Sherlock's busy limbs to get at his doublet. Sherlock grumbled his annoyance against John's jaw, batting his interfering hands away and sitting up quickly to do the deed himself. He shed his layers with impossible efficiency and was back down on John with frightening speed, erection distractedly brushing John's thigh as he indulgently continued to claim his mouth.

The abrupt sensation of chilly air against his bare skin informed John that the last vestiges of man-made fabrics no longer hindered their activities. Sherlock slid an excited hand over his newly-freed cock, drawing a strangled groan from John. The noise caused Sherlock to pull back slightly, stopping his movements altogether. He closed his eyes and sucked in controlled, staggered inhalations, attempting to steady his heart rate and slow himself down.

The loss of the unrelenting contact only emphasized the searing need overcoming John. He watched Sherlock's concentrated face, waiting. Impatience welled, and John began to turn over in invitation to advance the proceedings. Sherlock's arm stopped him.

"No," he said, voice rough. His eyes were open now, self-control successfully regained. "I wish to see you."

Sherlock maintained eye contact as he uncorked the salve and prepared John by blind touch alone. He watched him with a steady pale gaze as he tested that particular sensitive spot. John exhaled sharply at the stimulation, eyes widening in an overtly pleading expression. A covetous flare briefly passed through Sherlock's face, but he removed his hand and sat up to begin slicking himself.

John leaned his head back as Sherlock slowly breached him, that all-pervasive pressure that only grew heavier as Sherlock became more aroused. The intrusion was still an uncommon enough event to feel strange, although they were both somewhat practiced in minimizing the discomfort. He glanced up to watch Sherlock as he aligned himself, face all concentration as he guided John's pelvis to the desired position. A satisfied smile crossed his face when he was buried completely.

Balancing himself on the bed, Sherlock carefully leaned himself over John's body. John's own stiffening cock pressed against his stomach, friction speeding his heart rate. His breathing became labored at the sensation, and he attempted to pull Sherlock lower to intensify the feeling. Sherlock resisted the grasp, instead dropping an arm to either side of John and holding him firmly in place. He studied John yet again with an inquisitive expression, eyes undoubtedly absorbing every visible detail of his face. John shifted uneasily as his frustration grew to unbearable heights.

Sherlock finally began to tentatively thrust, tortuously slow strokes that lured terse, desperate noises from deep in John's throat. It wasn't enough, not nearly enough. Sherlock's eyes were thoroughly engrossed in John's reactions to each and every movement. He needed to fill in the gaps of his knowledge base, John realized. He stared straight back, allowing a clear view of his expressions and attempting to convey his frustration with the current rate of speed. Sherlock seemed to be calculating and thinking, the same way he had often looked at his plant samples.

After what apparently was a long enough time, Sherlock ducked his head to watch where he was joined to John. He increased his pace, adopting deepening strokes that threatened to dislodge John from his hold. Sherlock noticed immediately, and locked his arms above John's own, caging him. The constant friction on his cock drew increasing heaving gasps. Trapped between two opposing forces, John gripped Sherlock's arms with trembling hands to ground himself. The unstoppable sensations were steadily building up into a mountain of tension that urgently sought release.

Sherlock was focused on his own concerns, refusing to lead John over the edge yet. He experimented with several different motions and patterns, head intermittently travelling between both John's face and his buried cock. John couldn't control the increasingly agonized groans that escaped his mouth, but Sherlock seemed particularly fixated each time they appeared.

Gradually, Sherlock seemed to have collected everything he wanted. He leaned in for a languid kiss, which John interpreted as an appreciative gesture for bearing with his observational needs. After being strung along, however, John communicated his agitation by lightly teething at his bottom lip and releasing a displeased rumbling growl.

Sherlock pulled back at the reaction, a sudden shift of darkness resurfacing in his eyes. His expression registered awe, as if just realizing how desperately ready and willing John had become. He met John's eyes with a gaze of powerful intimacy, desire clear and unabated. This was a Sherlock only he would see, John understood with sudden astonishment; a hidden version who unrepentantly _wanted_. He allowed his controlled approach to finally slip away, and all that remained was pure animalistic need. Sherlock's grip tightened, and he drew closer to fully press himself on top of John, head sinking over his left shoulder.

His thrusts became demandingly ravenous, filling John to the core and blocking out any extraneous awareness. Sherlock strived to claim every piece of him, delving deeply within his body as if it could yield any further. Receiving the onslaught, John fought to ride through the excruciating surges edging him toward overstimulation. He clutched at whatever he could find to hold onto, fingers erratically grasping at bedding and flexing muscles. Sherlock bore down with all his weight and leverage, pinning John into the bed and keeping him immobile. He could heard Sherlock's strangled grunts mixed in with own faltering incomprehensible sounds.

Sherlock angled himself at last to stimulate John's most sensitive area. The speed and ferocity of his uncontrolled rutting combined with the intense stimulation it produced overwhelmed John almost immediately, vision bleeding into a single blinding streak. He knew he was probably shouting, but his own words were lost amidst the pounding pulse in his ears and unbearable assault on his senses. John vaguely thought he felt a hand at his jaw, but could not be sure.

His orgasm hit with shocking strength and intensity. He had no idea he was that close to the edge, and couldn't possibly identify its direct cause. An iron grip encased him as violent spasms wracked his body. Almost instantly, the heavy thickness within him throbbed frantically and released a great pressure. Held so close, the tremors from Sherlock's climax spread through John almost as forcefully as his own. After that, his disarrayed mind failed to register much of anything.

As John slowly recovered and came back to himself, he noted that Sherlock was still draping him like a blanket, head buried against the side of his neck. John raised a now-free arm, observing the reddened handprint on his bicep, and reached over to run his hand through Sherlock's damp hair. He was breathing deeply, spent and exhausted, and John felt a rising contentment at the sight.

"I love you," Sherlock said low in his ear, voice thin. "You never need doubt that."

"I never have, and I never will," he replied quietly.

They remained resting silently for some time, light from the fireplace dimming as the embers slowly burned out. John was already feeling the beginnings of soreness that would only grow worse on the morrow, but he expected to be forced into bed rest for the next several days, anyway. Sherlock would probably insist on sharing in the activity. John supposed it was time he tried his hand at providing the lord a bit of soreness in return.

"When did you first believe it possible for us to succeed?" John asked. " _Truly_ believe."

Sherlock finally moved at the question, raising himself onto one elbow. He ran a hand in John's hair, considering. "From the moment I met you, John. I knew immediately that you would never retreat from difficulty. That was all I ever need know about you." His eyes softened, and his smile was authentic. "My dauntless knight."

"You have more faith than I," John admitted, lowering his gaze. "For me, it was not until we crossed into your brother's home."

"Faith has nothing to do with it. I _knew_. Indisputably. Anything is possible with you."

John looked up at him for a long moment. Sherlock returned it steadily, decisively serious in his affirmations.

"I am an unsworn knight," John observed. "Would you suffer an oath?"

"I do not want your blind fealty," Sherlock answered distastefully.

"Then one of rarer standard?"

Sherlock appeared unsure what he meant.

John slid a hand onto Sherlock's chest, over his heart. "I, Sir John Watson, anointed knight and appointed defender of Christendom, swear a most solemn and holy oath to protect, preserve, and fight for your honor and good standing wherever it may be doubted. I vow to oppose all those who threaten violence or pledge vengeance against you. I swear to love you, with all that I am or may become. Even as God wills that my days on this earth be finished, even as the stars be extinguished and the sun's light fade from this world. Through all endings and beginnings that may come to pass, I am yours and yours alone." 

Sherlock's eyes wavered, his hand rising to cover John's. "I accept your oath, sir, and offer one in return. As you live or die, so shall I."

Their kiss was sweet and a gentle, a seal on their covenant, and John knew he was, at last, complete.


	9. Epilogue

"That's hand-crafted oak, my lord," Lady Hudson said as Sherlock drew his hand across the finely carved table positioned on that dais of the great hall. "My late husband commissioned it especially to complement the chamber."

Complement the small yet comfortable room, it did. Baker Hall was full of such surprises that suggested long years of care and love for the property. A modest manor house, its oak-paneled rooms and secluded surrounding forest was well-suited to those who enjoyed minimal company and privacy. The adjoining village of Bakerton was an hour's walk away, far enough to use as an excuse to distance himself from the local peasants and yet close enough to deal with any problems that may arise. The sturdy wood framing and practical floor plan left nothing to be desired. Sherlock even found himself enjoying the company of Lady Hudson, with her easy humor and understated wit.

"The hall seats forty, if you place them intelligently," she continued. "Do you expect to hold many societal events?"

"None, in fact," Sherlock answered, finishing his inspection and standing straight.

"None?" asked John from where he leaned against the nearby wall. He broke away, coming to join Sherlock and Lady Hudson. "Surely you'll host others on _some_ occasions."

Sherlock took a moment to watch him, presence lending a sense of home that he was now beginning to associate with the manor house. John wore his new heraldic doublet of green and beige, hound insignia stitched over the heart. He had repeatedly tried to convince Sherlock that wearing the blue uniform of a knight in service of the Holmes family would be enough, but Sherlock flatly rejected the idea. John wasn't sworn to Mycroft, and Sherlock would not have him blending in like some common man-at-arms.

"Who would you have me invite? Mycroft? James? Your dear friend Sebastian?"

John rolled his eyes and sighed belligerently. In the weeks following their flight from Northrop, Duke James had released a weak public pronouncement that Sherlock and John were fugitive from his custody, and a middling reward had been offered for their return. It was a false front, of course. Mycroft now regularly received troubling whispers of the ire and malice that James held toward them all, as well as his rumored plans for revenge. Harriet and several of the other ladies had managed to depart for safer regions, and were now purportedly lying low at Lord Morstan's estate. Anthea arrived at Greyhurst shortly thereafter with news that Sir Gregory's falsehoods had cast him under a great deal of suspicion by the Duke, but dearth of evidence led to no action being taken against him. John brought Gregory's horse with him to keep in the stables of Baker Hall, unsure when he would be able to return it, if ever.

"It will be weeks yet before the manor is ready to house any significant number," Lady Hudson said. "I wasn't expecting your arrival for another fortnight, my lord. None of the staff is here, save myself and a few other long-time servants."

"That's not an issue," Sherlock said dismissively. "Far better than remaining at Greyhurst."

"I'll have the master bedchamber and accompanying solar prepared immediately," Lady Hudson disclosed, smile crossing her lips. "Shall the one room suffice, or would you prefer a second arranged for propriety's sake?"

Lady Hudson was yet another person to never underestimate, Sherlock noted to himself. He could sense John stilling at his side, head fractionally turning in silent query. They hadn't fully concluded how to handle their behavior here. Standing in _his_ hall, though - the site of the life Sherlock intended to build for himself - the answer was transparently obvious. John was the essential core of the foundation to be laid, and it was unthinkable to devalue his importance. The time for hiding was done.

He glanced down and took John's hand in his own, then evenly met Lady Hudson's curious expression. "Yes, my lady, I believe one room will serve perfectly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lovely art](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/38014128933/his-lords-colours-and-flight-to-greyhurst) by khorazir
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr](http://antietamfalls.tumblr.com)


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